
==================================
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==================================                    R.A.Salvatore

                   The Silent Blade

  

    (Forgotten Realms novell. Path of Darkness. Book I)

    

                       PROLOGUE

  

    Wulfgar lay back in his bed, pondering, trying to come to

 terms with the abrupt changes that I had come over his life.

 Rescued from the demon Errtu and his hellish prison in the

 Abyss, the proud barbarian found himself once again among

 friends and allies. Bruenor, his adopted dwarven father, was

 here, and so was Drizzt, his dark elven mentor and dearest

 friend. Wulfgar could tell from the snoring that Regis, the

 chubby halfling, was sleeping contentedly in the next room.

    And Catti-brie, dear Catti-brie, the woman Wulfgar had

 come to love those years before, the woman whom he had

 planned to marry seven years previously in Mithral Hall. They

 were all here at their home in Icewind Dale, reunited and

 presumably at peace, through the heroic efforts of these

 wonderful friends.

    Wulfgar did not know what that meant.

    Wulfgar, who had been through such a terrible ordeal over

 six years of torture at the clawed hands of the demon Errtu,

 did not understand.

    The huge man crossed his arms over his chest. Sheer

 exhaustion put him here in bed, forced him down, for he would

 not willingly choose sleep. Errtu found him in his dreams.

    And so it was this night. Wulfgar, though deep in thought

 and deep in turmoil, succumbed to his exhaustion and fell

 into a peaceful blackness that soon turned again into the

 images of the swirling gray mists that were the Abyss. There

 sat the gigantic, bat-winged Errtu, perched upon his carved

 mushroom throne, laughing. Always laughing that hideous

 croaking chuckle. That laugh was borne not out of joy, but

 was rather a mocking thing, an insult to those the demon

 chose to torture. Now the beast aimed that unending

 wickedness at Wulfgar, as was aimed the huge pincer of

 Bizmatec, another demon, minion of Errtu. With strength

 beyond the bounds of almost any other human, Wulfgar

 ferociously wrestled Bizmatec. The barbarian batted aside the

 huge humanlike arms and the two other upper-body appendages,

 the pincer arms, for a long while, slapping and punching

 desperately.

    But too many flailing limbs came at him. Bizmatec was too

 large and too strong, and the mighty barbarian eventually

 began to tire.

    It ended-always it ended-with one of Bizmatec's pincers

 around Wulfgar's throat, the demon's other pincer arm and its

 two humanlike arms holding the defeated human steady. Expert

 in this, his favorite torturing technique, Bizmatec pressed

 oh so subtly on Wulfgar's throat, took away the air, then

 gave it back, over and over, leaving the man weak in the

 legs, gasping and gasping as minutes, then hours, slipped

 past.

    Wulfgar sat up straight in his bed, clutching at his

 throat, clawing a scratch down one side of it before he

 realized that the demon was not there, that he was safe in

 his bed in the land he called home, surrounded by his

 friends.

    Friends . . .

    What did that word mean? What could they know of his

 torment? How could they help him chase away the enduring

 nightmare that was Errtu?

    The haunted man did not sleep the rest of the night, and

 when Drizzt came to rouse him, well before the dawn, the dark

 elf found Wulfgar already dressed for the road. They were to

 leave this day, all five, bearing the artifact Crenshinibon

 far, far to the south and west. They were bound for Caradoon

 on the banks ofImpreskLake , and then into the Snowflake

 Mountains to a great monastery called Spirit Soaring where a

 priest named Cadderly would destroy the wicked relic.

    Crenshinibon. Drizzt had it with him when he came to get

 Wulfgar that morning. The drow didn't wear it openly, but

 Wulfgar knew it was there. He could sense it, could feel its

 vile presence. For Crenshinibon remained linked to its last

 master, the demon Errtu. It tingled with the energy of the

 demon, and because Drizzt had it on him and was standing so

 close, Errtu, too, remained close to Wulfgar.

    "A fine day for the road," the drow remarked light-

 heartedly, but his tone was strained, condescending, Wulfgar

 noted. With more than a little difficulty, Wulfgar resisted

 the urge to punch Drizzt in the face.

    Instead, he grunted in reply and strode past the

 deceptively small dark elf. Drizzt was but a few inches over

 five feet, while Wulfgar towered closer to seven feet than to

 six, and carried fully twice the weight of the drow. The

 barbarian's thigh was thicker than Drizzt's waist, and yet,

 if it came to blows between them, wise bettors would favor

 the drow.

    "I have not yet wakened Catti-brie," Drizzt explained.

    Wulfgar turned fast at the mention of the name. He stared

 hard into the drow's lavender eyes, his own blue orbs

 matching the intensity that always seemed to be there.

    "But Regis is already awake and at his morning meal-he is

 hoping to get two or three breakfasts in before we leave, no

 doubt," Drizzt added with a chuckle, one that Wulfgar did not

 share. "And Bruenor will meet us on the field beyond Bryn

 Shander's eastern gate. He is with his own folk, preparing

 the priestess Stumpet to lead the clan in his absence."

    Wulfgar only half heard the words. They meant nothing to

 him. All the world meant nothing to him.

    "Shall we rouse Catti-brie?" the drow asked.

    "I will," Wulfgar answered gruffly. "You see to Regis. If

 he gets a belly full of food, he will surely slow us down,

 and I mean to be quick to your friend Cadderly, that we might

 be rid of Crenshinibon."

    Drizzt started to answer, but Wulfgar turned away, moving

 down the hall to Catti-brie's door. He gave a single,

 thunderous knock, then pushed right through. Drizzt moved a

 step in that direction to scold the barbarian for his rude

 behavior-the woman had not even acknowledged his knock, after

 all-but he let it go. Of all the humans the drow had ever

 met, Catti-brie ranked as the most capable at defending

 herself from insult or violence.

    Besides, Drizzt knew that his desire to go and scold

 Wulfgar was wrought more than a bit by his jealousy of the

 man who once was, and perhaps was soon again, to be Catti-

 brie's husband.

    The drow stroked a hand over his handsome face and turned

 to find Regis.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Wearing only a slight undergarment and with her pants

 half pulled up, the startled Catti-brie turned a surprised

 look on Wulfgar as he strode into her room. "Ye might've

 waited for an answer," she said dryly, brushing away her

 embarrassment and pulling her pants up, then going to

 retrieve her tunic.

    Wulfgar nodded and held up his hands-only half an

 apology, perhaps, but a half more than Catti-brie had

 expected. She saw the pain in the man's sky blue eyes and the

 emptiness of his occasional strained smiles. She had talked

 with Drizzt about it at length, and with Bruenor and Regis,

 and they had all decided to be patient. Time alone could heal

 Wulfgar's wounds.

    "The drow has prepared a morning meal for us all,"

 Wulfgar explained. "We should eat well before we start on the

 long road."

    " 'The drow'? " Catti-brie echoed. She hadn't meant to

 speak it aloud, but so dumbfounded was she by Wulfgar's

 distant reference to Drizzt that the words just slipped out.

 Would Wulfgar call Bruenor "the dwarf"? And how long would it

 be before she became simply "the girl"? Catti-brie blew a

 deep sigh and pulled her tunic over her shoulders, reminding

 herself pointedly that Wulfgar had been through hell-

 literally. She looked at him now, studying those eyes, and

 saw a hint of embarrassment there, as though her echo of his

 callous reference to Drizzt had indeed struck him in the

 heart. That was a good sign.

    He turned to leave her room, but she moved to him,

 reaching up to gently stroke the side of his face, her hand

 running down his smooth cheek to the scratchy beard that he

 had either decided to grow or simply hadn't been motivated

 enough to shave.

    Wulfgar looked down at her, at the tenderness in her

 eyes, and for the first time since the fight on the ice floe

 when he and his friends had dispatched wicked Errtu, there

 came a measure of honesty in his slight smile.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Regis did get his three meals, and he grumbled about it

 all that morning as the five friends started out from Bryn

 Shander, the largest of the villages in the region called Ten

 Towns in forlorn Icewind Dale. Their course was north at

 first, moving to easier ground, and then turning due west. To

 the north, far in the distance, they saw the high structures

 of Targos, second city of the region, and beyond the city's

 roofs could be seen shining waters of Maer Dualdon.

    By mid-afternoon, with more than a dozen miles behind

 them, they came to the banks of the Shaengarne, the great

 river swollen and running fast with the spring melt. They

 followed it north, back to Maer Dualdon, to the town of

 Bremenand a waiting boat Regis had arranged.

    Gently refusing the many offers from townsfolk to remain

 in the village for supper and a warm bed, and over the many

 protests of Regis, who claimed that he was famished and ready

 to lay down and die, the friends were soon west of the river,

 running on again, leaving the towns, their home, behind.

    Drizzt could hardly believe that they had set out so

 soon. Wulfgar had only recently been returned to them. All of

 them were together once more in the land they called their

 home, at peace, and yet, here they were, heeding again the

 call of duty and running down the road to adventure. The drow

 had the cowl of his traveling cloak pulled low about his

 face, shielding his sensitive eyes from the stinging sun.

    Thus his friends could not see his wide smile.

    

                             Part 1

  

                             APATHY

    

    Often I sit and ponder the turmoil I feel when my blades

 are at rest, when all the world around me seems at peace.

 This is the supposed ideal for which I strive, the calm that

 we all hope will eventually return to us when we are at war,

 and yet, in these peaceful times-and they have been rare

 occurrences indeed in the more than seven decades of my life-

 I do not feel as if I have found perfection, but, rather, as

 if something is missing from my life.

    It seems such an incongruous notion, and yet I have come

 to know that I am a warrior, a creature of action. In those

 times when there is no pressing need for action, I am not at

 ease. Not at all.

    When the road is not filled with adventure, when there

 are no monsters to battle and no mountains to climb, boredom

 finds me. I have come to accept this truth of my life, this

 truth about who I am, and so, on those rare, empty occasions

 I can find a way to defeat the boredom. I can find a mountain

 peak higher than the last I climbed.

    I see many of the same symptoms now in Wulfgar, returned

 to us from the grave, from the swirling darkness that was

 Errtu's corner of the Abyss. But I fear that Wulfgar's state

 has transcended simple boredom, spilling into the realm of

 apathy. Wulfgar, too, was a creature of action, but that

 doesn't seem to be the cure for his lethargy or his apathy.

 His own people now call out to him, begging action. They have

 asked him to assume leadership of the tribes. Even stubborn

 Berkthgar, who would have to give up that coveted position of

 rulership, supports Wulfgar. He and all the rest of them

 know, at this tenuous time, that above all others Wulfgar,

 son of Beornegar, could bring great gains to the nomadic

 barbarians of Icewind Dale.

    Wulfgar will not heed that call. It is neither humility

 nor weariness stopping him, I recognize, nor any fears that

 he cannot handle the position or live up to the expectations

 of those begging him. Any of those problems could be

 overcome, could be reasoned through or supported by Wulfgar's

 friends, myself included. But, no, it is none of those

 rectifiable things.

    It is simply that he does not care.

    Could it be that his own agonies at the clawed hands of

 Errtu were so great and so enduring that he has lost his

 ability to empathize with the pain of others? Has he seen too

 much horror, too much agony, to hear their cries?

    I fear this above all else, for it is a loss that knows

 no precise cure. And yet, to be honest, I see it clearly

 etched in Wulfgar's features, a state of self-absorption

 where too many memories of his own recent horrors cloud his

 vision. Perhaps he does not even recognize someone else's

 pain. Or perhaps, if he does see it, he dismisses it as

 trivial next to the monumental trials he suffered for those

 six years as Errtu's prisoner. Loss of empathy might well be

 the most enduring and deep-cutting scar of all, the silent

 blade of an unseen enemy, tearing at our hearts and stealing

 more than our strength. Stealing our will, for what are we

 without empathy? What manner of joy might we find in our

 lives if we cannot understand the joys and pains of those

 around us, if we cannot share in a greater community? I

 remember my years in the Underdark after I ran out of

 Menzoberranzan. Alone, save the occasional visits from

 Guenhwyvar, I survived those long years through my own

 imagination.

    I am not certain that Wulfgar even has that capacity left

 to him, for imagination requires introspection, a reaching

 within one's thoughts, and I fear that every time my friend

 so looks inward, all he sees are the minions of Errtu, the

 sludge and horrors of the Abyss.

    He is surrounded by friends, who love him and will try

 with all their hearts to support him and help him climb out

 of Errtu's emotional dungeon. Perhaps Catti-brie, the woman

 he once loved (and perhaps still does love) so deeply, will

 prove pivotal to his recovery. It pains me to watch them

 together, I admit. She treats Wulfgar with such tenderness

 and compassion, but I know that he feels not her gentle

 touch. Better that she slap his face, eye him sternly, and

 show him the truth of his lethargy. I know this and yet I

 cannot tell her to do so, for their relationship is much more

 complicated than that. I have nothing but Wulfgar's best

 interests in my mind and my heart now, and yet, if I showed

 Catti-brie a way that seemed less than compassionate, it

 could be, and would be-by Wulfgar at least, in his present

 state of mind- construed as the interference of a jealous

 suitor.

    Not true. For though I do not know Catti-brie's honest

 feelings toward this man who once was to be her husband-for

 she has become quite guarded with her feelings of late-I do

 recognize that Wulfgar is not capable of love at this time.

    Not capable of love ... are there any sadder words to

 describe a man? I think not, and wish that I could now assess

 Wulfgar's state of mind differently. But love, honest love,

 requires empathy. It is a sharing-of joy, of pain, of

 laughter, of tears. Honest love makes one's soul a reflection

 of the partner's moods. And as a room seems larger when it is

 lined with mirrors, so do the joys become amplified. And as

 the individual items within the mirrored room seem less

 acute, so does pain diminish and fade, stretched thin by the

 sharing.

    That is the beauty of love, whether in passion or

 friendship. A sharing that multiplies the joys and thins the

 pains. Wulfgar is surrounded now by friends, all willing to

 engage in such sharing, as it once was between us. Yet he

 cannot so engage us, cannot let loose those guards that he

 necessarily put in place when surrounded by the likes of

 Errtu.

    He has lost his empathy. I can only pray that he will

 find it again, that time will allow him to open his heart and

 soul to those deserving, for without empathy he will find no

 purpose. Without purpose, he will find no satisfaction.

 Without satisfaction, he will find no contentment, and

 without contentment, he will find no joy.

    And we, all of us, will have no way to help him.

    

    -Drizzt Do'Urden

    

                            Chapter 1

                        A STRANGER AT HOME

  

    Artemis Entreri stood on a rocky hill overlooking the

 vast, dusty city, trying to sort through the myriad feelings

 that swirled within him. He reached up to wipe the blowing

 dust and sand from his lips and from the hairs of his newly

 grown goatee. Only as he wiped it did he realize that he

 hadn't shaved the rest of his face in several days, for now

 the small beard, instead of standing distinct upon his face,

 fell to ragged edges across his cheeks. Entreri didn't care.

    The wind pulled many strands of his long hair from the

 tie at the back of his head, the wayward lengths slapping

 across his face, stinging his dark eyes. Entreri didn't care.

    He just stared down at Calimport and tried hard to stare

 inside himself. The man had lived nearly two-thirds of his

 life in the sprawling city on the southern coast, had come to

 prominence as a warrior and a killer there. It was the only

 place that he could ever really call home. Looking down on it

 now, brown and dusty, the relentless desert sun flashed

 brilliantly off the white marble of the greater homes. It

 also illuminated the many hovels, shacks, and torn tents set

 along roads-muddy roads only because they had no proper

 sewers for drainage. Looking down on Calimport now, the

 returning assassin didn't know how to feel. Once, he had

 known his place in the world. He had reached the pinnacle of

 his nefarious profession, and any who spoke his name did so

 with reverence and fear. When a pasha hired Artemis Entreri

 to kill a man, that man was soon dead. Without exception. And

 despite the many enemies he had obviously made, the assassin

 had been able to walk the streets of Calimport openly, not

 from shadow to shadow, in all confidence that none would be

 bold enough to act against him.

    No one would dare shoot an arrow at Artemis Entreri, for

 they would know that the single shot must be perfect, must

 finish this man who seemed above the antics of mere mortals,

 else he would then come looking for them. And he would find

 them, and he would kill them.

    A movement to the side, the slight shift of a shadow,

 caught Entreri's attention. He shook his head and sighed, not

 really surprised, when a cloaked figure leaped out from the

 rocks, some twenty feet ahead of him and stood blocking the

 path, arms crossed over his burly chest.

    "Going to Calimport?" the man asked, his voice thick with

 a southern accent.

    Entreri didn't answer, just kept his head straight ahead,

 though his eyes darted to the many rocks lining both sides of

 the trail.

    "You must pay for the passage," the burly man went on. "I

 am your guide." With that he bowed and came up showing a

 toothless grin.

    Entreri had heard many tales of this common game of money

 through intimidation, though never before had one been bold

 enough to block his way. Yes, indeed, he realized, he had

 been gone a long time. Still he didn't answer, and the burly

 man shifted, throwing wide his cloak to reveal a sword under

 his belt.

    "How many coins do you offer?" the man asked.

    Entreri started to tell him to move aside but changed his

 mind and only sighed again.

    Deaf?" said the man, and he drew out his sword and

 advanced yet another step. "You pay me, or me and my friends

 will take the coins from your torn body."

    Entreri didn't reply, didn't move, didn't draw his

 jeweled dagger, his only weapon. He just stood there, and his

 ambivalence seemed to anger the burly man all the more.

    The man glanced to the side-to Entreri's left-just

 slightly, but the assassin caught the look clearly. He

 followed it to one of the robber's companions, holding a bow

 in the shadows between two huge rocks.

    "Now," said the burly man. "Last chance for you."

    Entreri quietly hooked his toe under a rock, but made no

 movement other than that. He stood waiting, staring at the

 burly man, but with the archer on the edge of his vision. So

 well could the assassin read the movements of men, the

 slightest muscle twitch, the blink of an eye, that it was he

 who moved first. Entreri leaped out diagonally, ahead and to

 the left, rolling over and kicking out with his right foot.

 He launched the stone the archer's way, not to hit the man-

 that would have been above the skill even of Artemis Entreri-

 but in the hopes of distracting him. As he came over into the

 somersault, the assassin let his cloak fly wildly, hoping it

 might catch and slow the arrow.

    He needn't have worried, for the archer missed badly and

 would have even if Entreri hadn't moved at all.

    Coming up from the roll, Entreri set his feet and squared

 himself to the charging swordsmen, aware also that two other

 men were coming over the rocks at either side of the trail.

    Still showing no weapon, Entreri unexpectedly charged

 ahead, ducking the swipe of the sword at the last possible

 instant, then came up hard behind the swishing blade, one

 hand catching the attacker's chin, the other snapping behind

 the man's head, grabbing his hair. A twist and turn flipped

 the swordsman on the ground. Entreri let go, running his hand

 up the man's weapon arm to fend off any attempted attacks.

 The man went down on his back hard. At that moment Entreri

 stomped down on his throat. The man's grasp on the sword

 weakened, almost as if he were handing the weapon to Entreri.

    The assassin leaped away, not wanting to get his feet

 tangled as the other two came in, one straight ahead, the

 other from behind. Out flashed Entreri's sword, a straight

 left-handed thrust, followed by a dazzling, rolling stab. The

 man easily stepped back out of Entreri's reach, but the

 attack hadn't been designed to score a hit anyway. Entreri

 flipped the sword to his right hand, an overhand grip, then

 stepped back suddenly, so suddenly, turning his hand and the

 blade. He brought it across his body, then stabbed it out

 behind him. The assassin felt the tip enter the man's chest

 and heard the gasp of air as he sliced a lung.

    Instinct alone had Entreri spinning, turning to the right

 and keeping the attacker impaled. He brought the man about as

 a shield against the archer, who did indeed fire again. But

 again, the man missed badly, and this time the arrow burrowed

 into the ground several feet in front of Entreri.

    "Idiot," the assassin muttered, and with a sudden jerk,

 he dropped his latest victim to the dirt, bringing the sword

 about in the same fluid movement. So brilliantly had he

 executed the maneuver that the remaining swordsman finally

 understood his folly, turned about, and fled.

    Entreri spun again, threw the sword in the general

 direction of the archer, and bolted for cover.

    A long moment slipped past.

    Where is he?" the archer called out, obvious fear and

 frustration in his voice. "Merk, do you see him?"

    Another long moment passed.

    "Where is he?" the archer cried again, growing frantic.

 "Merk, where is he?"

    "Right behind you" came a whisper. A jeweled dagger

 flashed, slicing the bowstring and then, before the stunned

 man could begin to react, resting against the front of his

 throat.

    "Please," the man stammered, trembling so badly that his

 movements, not Entreri's, caused the first nick from that

 fine blade. "I have children, yes. Many, many children.

 Seventeen ..."

    He ended in a gurgle as Entreri cut him from ear to ear,

 bringing his foot up against the man's back even as he did,

 then kicking him facedown to the ground.

    "Then you should have chosen a safer career," Entreri

 answered, though the man could not hear.

    Peering out from the rocks, the assassin soon spotted the

 fourth of the group, moving from shadow to shadow across the

 way. The man was obviously heading for Calimport but was

 simply too scared to jump out and run in the open. Entreri

 knew that he could catch the man, or perhaps re-string the

 bow and take him down from this spot. But he didn't, for he

 hardly cared. Not even bothering to search the bodies for

 loot, Entreri wiped and sheathed his magical dagger and moved

 back onto the road. Yes, he had been gone a long, long time.

    Before he had left this city, Artemis Entreri had known

 his place in the world and in Calimport. He thought of that

 now, staring at the city after an absence of several years.

 He understood the shadowy world he had inhabited and realized

 that many changes had likely taken place in those alleys. Old

 associates would be gone, and his reputation would not likely

 carry him through the initial meetings with the new, often

 self-proclaimed leaders of the various guilds and sects.

    "What have you done to me, Drizzt Do'Urden?" he asked

 with a chuckle, for this great change in the life of Artemis

 Entreri had begun when a certain Pasha Pook had sent him on a

 mission to retrieve a magical ruby pendant from a runaway

 halfling. An easy enough task, Entreri had believed. The

 halfling, Regis, was known to the assassin and should not

 have proven a difficult adversary.

    Little did Entreri know at that time that Regis had done

 a marvelously cunning job of surrounding himself with

 powerful allies, particularly the dark elf. How many years

 had it been, Entreri pondered, since he had first encountered

 Drizzt Do'Urden? Since he had first met his warrior equal,

 who could rightly hold a mirror up to Entreri and show the

 lie that was his existence? Nearly a decade, he realized, and

 while he had grown older and perhaps a bit slower, the drow

 elf, who might live six centuries, had aged not at all.

    Yes, Drizzt had started Entreri on a path of dangerous

 introspection. The blackness had only been amplified when

 Entreri had gone after Drizzt again, along with the remnants

 of the drow's family. Drizzt had beaten Entreri on a high

 ledge outside Mithral Hall, and the assassin would have died,

 except that an opportunistic dark elf by the name of Jarlaxle

 had rescued him. Jarlaxle had then taken him to

 Menzoberranzan, the vast city of the drow, the stronghold of

 Lolth, Demon Queen of Chaos. The human assassin had found a

 different standing down there in a city of intrigue and

 brutality. There, everyone was an assassin, and Entreri,

 despite his tremendous talents at the murderous art, was only

 human, a fact that relegated him to the bottom of the social

 ladder.

    But it was more than simple perceptual standing that had

 struck the assassin profoundly during his stay in the city of

 drow. It was the realization of the emptiness of his

 existence. There, in a city full of Entreris, he had come to

 recognize the folly of his confidence, of his ridiculous

 notion that his passionless dedication to pure fighting skill

 had somehow elevated him above the rabble. He knew that now,

 looking down at Calimport, at the city he had known as a

 home, at his last refuge, it seemed, in all the world.

    In dark and mysterious Menzoberranzan, Artemis Entreri

 had been humbled.

    As he made his way to the distant city, Entreri wondered

 many times if he truly desired this return. His first days

 would be perilous, he knew, but it was not fear for the end

 of his life that brought a hesitance to his normally cocky

 stride. It was fear of continuing his life.

    Outwardly, little had changed in Calimport-the town of a

 million beggars, Entreri liked to call it. True to form, he

 passed by dozens of pitiful wretches, lying in rags, or

 naked, along the sides of the road, most of them likely in

 the same spot the city guards had thrown them that morning,

 clearing the way for the golden-gilded carriages of the

 important merchants. They reached toward Entreri with

 trembling, bony fingers, arms so weak and emaciated that they

 could not hold them up for even the few seconds it took the

 heartless man to stride past them.

    Where to go? he wondered. His old employer, Pasha Pook,

 was long dead, the victim of Drizzt's powerful panther

 companion after Entreri had done as the man had bade him and

 returned Regis and the ruby pendant. Entreri had not remained

 in the city for long after that unfortunate incident, for he

 had brought Regis in and that had led to the demise of a

 powerful figure, ultimately a black stain on Entreri's record

 among his less-than-merciful associates. He could have mended

 the situation, probably quite easily, by simply offering his

 normally invaluable services to another powerful guildmaster

 or pasha, but he had chosen the road. Entreri had been bent

 on revenge against Drizzt, not for the killing of Pook-the

 assassin cared little about that-but because he and Drizzt

 had battled fiercely without conclusion in the city's sewers,

 a fight that Entreri still believed he should have won.

    Walking along the dirty streets of Calimport now, he had

 to wonder what reputation he had left behind. Certainly many

 other assassins would have spoken ill of him in his absence,

 would have exaggerated Entreri's failure in the Regis

 incident in order to strengthen their own positions within

 the gutter pecking order.

    Entreri smiled as he considered the fact, and he knew it

 to be fact, that those ill words against him would have been

 spoken in whispers only. Even in his absence, those other

 killers would fear retribution. Perhaps he didn't know his

 place in the world any longer. Perhaps Menzoberranzan had

 held a dark . . . no, not dark, but merely empty mirror

 before his eyes, but he could not deny that he still enjoyed

 the respect.

    Respect he might have to earn yet again, he pointedly

 reminded himself.

    As he moved along the familiar streets, more and more

 memories came back to him. He knew where most of the guild

 houses had been located, and suspected that, unless there had

 been some ambitious purge by the lawful leaders of the city,

 many still stood intact, and probably brimming with the

 associates he had once known. Pook's house had been shaken to

 the core by the killing of the wretched pasha and,

 subsequently, by the appointment of the lazy halfling Regis

 as Pook's successor. Entreri had taken care of that minor

 problem by taking care of Regis, and yet, despite the chaos

 imposed upon that house, when Entreri had gone north with the

 halfling in tow, the house of Pook had survived. Perhaps it

 still stood, though the assassin could only guess as to who

 might be ruling it now.

    That would have been a logical place for Entreri to go

 and rebuild his base of power within the city, but he simply

 shrugged and walked past the side avenue that would lead to

 it. He thought he was merely wandering aimlessly, but soon

 enough he came to another familiar region and realized that

 he had subconsciously aimed for this area, perhaps in an

 effort to regain his heart.

    These were the streets where a young Artemis Entreri had

 first made his mark in Calimport, where he, barely a

 teenager, had defeated all challengers to his supremacy,

 where he had battled the man sent by Theebles Royuset, the

 lieutenant in powerful Pasha Basadoni's guild. Entreri had

 killed that thug and had later killed ugly Theebles, the

 clever murder moving him into Basadoni's generous favor. He

 had become a lieutenant in one of the most powerful guilds of

 Calimport, of all of Calimshan, at the tender age of

 fourteen.

    But now he hardly cared, and recalling the story did not

 even bring the slightest hint of a smile to his face. He

 thought back further, to the torment that had landed him here

 in the first place, trials too great for a boy to overcome,

 deception and betrayal by everyone he had known and trusted,

 most pointedly his own father. Still, he didn't care,

 couldn't even feel the pain any longer. It was meaningless,

 emptiness, without merit or point.

    He saw a woman in the shadows of one hovel, hanging

 washed clothes to dry. She shifted deeper into the shadows,

 obviously wary. He understood her concern, for he was a

 stranger here, dressed too richly with his thick, well-

 stitched traveling cloak to belong in the shanty town.

 Strangers in these brutal places usually brought danger.

    "From there to there," came a call, the voice of a young

 man, full of pride and edged with fear. Entreri turned slowly

 to see the youth, a tall and gangly lad, holding a club laced

 with spikes, swinging it nervously.

    Entreri stared at him hard, seeing himself in the boy's

 face. No, not himself, he realized, for this one was too

 obviously nervous. This one would likely not survive for

 long.

    "From there to there!" the boy said more loudly, pointing

 with his free hand to the end of the street where Entreri had

 entered, to the far end, where the assassin had been going.

    "Your pardon, young master," Entreri said, dipping a

 slight bow, and feeling, as he did, his jeweled dagger, set

 on his belt under the folds of his cloak. A flick of his

 wrist could easily propel that dagger the fifteen feet, past

 the awkward youth's defenses and deep into his throat.

    "Master," the lad echoed, his tone as much that of an

 incredulous question as an assertion. "Yes, master," he

 decided, apparently liking the title. "Master of this street,

 of all these streets, and none walk them without the

 permission of Taddio." As he finished, he prodded his thumb

 repeatedly into his chest.

    Entreri straightened, and for just an instant, death

 flashed across his black eyes and the words "dead master"

 echoed through his thoughts. The lad had just challenged him,

 and the Artemis Entreri of a few years previous, a man who

 accepted and conquered all challenges, would have simply

 destroyed the youth where he stood.

    But now that flash of pride whisked by, leaving Entreri

 unfazed and uninsulted. He gave a resigned sigh, wondering if

 he would find yet another stupid fight this day. And for

 what? he wondered, facing this pitiful, confused little boy

 on an empty street over which no rational person would even

 deign to claim ownership. "I begged you pardon, young

 master," he said calmly. "I did not know, for I am new to the

 region and ignorant of your customs."

    "Then you should learn!" the lad replied angrily, gaining

 courage in Entreri's submissive response and coming forward a

 couple of strong strides.

    Entreri shook his head, his hand starting for the dagger,

 but going, instead to his belt purse. He pulled out a gold

 coin and tossed it to the feet of the strutting youth.

    The boy, who drank from sewers and ate the scraps he

 could rummage from the alleys behind the merchant houses,

 could not hide his surprise and awe at such a treasure. He

 regained his composure a moment later, though, and looked

 back at Entreri with a superior posture. "It is not enough,"

 he said.

    Entreri threw out another gold coin, and a silver. "That

 is all that I have, young master," he said, holding his hands

 out wide.

    "If I search you and learn differently . . ." the lad

 threatened.

    Entreri sighed again, and decided that if the youth

 approached he would kill him quickly and mercifully.

    The boy bent and scooped up the three coins. "If you come

 back to the domain of Taddio, have with you more coins," he

 declared. "I warn you. Now begone! Out the same end of the

 street you entered!"

    Entreri looked back the way he had come. In truth, one

 direction seemed as good as any other to him at that time, so

 he gave a slight bow and walked back, out of the domain of

 Taddio, who had no idea how lucky he had been this day.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    The building stood three full stories and, decorated with

 elaborate sculptures and shining marble, was truly the most

 impressive abode of all the thieving guilds. Normally such

 shadowy figures tried to keep a low profile, living in houses

 that seemed unremarkable from the outside, though they were,

 in truth, palatial within. Not so with the house of Pasha

 Basadoni. The old man-and he was ancient now, closer to

 ninety than to eighty-enjoyed his luxuries, and enjoyed

 showing the power and splendor of his guild to all who would

 look.

    In a large chamber in the middle of the second floor, the

 gathering room for Basadoni's principle commanders, the two

 men and one woman who truly operated the day-to-day

 activities of the extensive guild entertained a young street

 thug. He was more a boy than a man, an unimpressive figure

 held in power by the backing of Pasha Basadoni and surely not

 by his own wiles.

    "At least he is loyal," remarked Hand, a quiet and subtle

 thief, the master of shadows, when Taddio left them. "Two

 gold pieces and one silver-no small take for one working that

 gutter section."

    "If that is all he received from his visitor," Sharlotta

 Vespers answered with a dismissive chuckle. Sharlotta stood

 tallest of the three captains, an inch above six feet, her

 body slender, her movements graceful-so graceful that Pasha

 Basadoni had nicknamed her his "Willow Tree." It was no

 secret that Basadoni had taken Sharlotta as his lover and

 still used her in that manner on those rare occasions when

 his old body was up to the task. It was common knowledge that

 Sharlotta had used those liaisons to her benefit and had

 climbed the ranks through Basadoni's bed. She willingly

 admitted as much, usually just before she killed the man or

 woman who had complained about it. A shake of her head sent

 waist-length black hair flipping back over one shoulder, so

 that Hand could see her wry expression clearly.

    "If Taddio had received more, then he would have

 delivered more," Hand assured her, his tone, despite his

 anger, revealing that hint of frustration he and their other

 companion, Kadran Gordeon, always felt when dealing with the

 condescending Sharlotta. Hand ruled the quiet services of

 Basadoni's operation, the pickpockets and the prostitutes who

 worked the market, while Kadran Gordeon dealt with the

 soldiers of the street army. But Sharlotta, the Willow Tree,

 had Basadoni's ear above them all. She served as the

 principal attendant of the Pasha and as the voice of the now

 little seen old man.

    When Basadoni finally died, these three would fight for

 control, no doubt, and while those who understood only the

 peripheral truths of the guild would likely favor the brash

 and loud Kadran Gordeon, those, such as Hand, who had a

 better feeling for the true inner workings, understood that

 Sharlotta Vespers had already taken many, many steps to

 secure and strengthen her position with or without the

 specter of Basadoni looming over them.

    "How many words will we waste on the workings of a boy?"

 Kadran Gordeon complained. "Three new merchants have set up

 kiosks in the market a stone's throw from our house without

 our permission. That is the more important matter, the one

 requiring our full attention."

    "We have already talked it through," Sharlotta replied.

 "You want us to give you permission to send out your

 soldiers, perhaps even a battle-mage, to teach the merchants

 better. You will not get that from us at this time."

    "If we wait for Pasha Basadoni to finally speak on this

 matter, other merchants will come to the belief that they,

 too, need not pay us for the privilege of operating within

 the boundaries of our protective zone." He turned to Hand,

 the small man often his ally in arguments with Sharlotta. But

 the thief was obviously distracted, staring down at one of

 the coins the boy Taddio had given to him. Sensing that he

 was being watched, Hand looked up at the other two.

    "What is it?" Kadran prompted.

    "I've not seen one like this," Hand explained, flipping

 the coin to the burly man.

    Kadran caught it and quickly examined it, then, with a

 surprised expression, handed it over to Sharlotta. "Nor have

 I seen one with this stamp," he admitted. "Not of the city, I

 believe, nor of anywhere in Calimshan."

    Sharlotta studied the coin carefully, a flicker of

 recognition coming to her striking light green eyes. "The

 crescent moon," she remarked, then flipped it over. "Profile

 of a unicorn. This is a coin from the region of Silverymoon."

    The other two looked to each, surprised, as was

 Sharlotta, by the revelation. "Silverymoon?" Kadran echoed

 incredulously.

    "A city far to the north, east of Waterdeep," Sharlotta

 replied.

    "I know where Silverymoon lies," Kadran replied dryly.

 "The domain of Lady Alustriel, I believe. That is not what I

 find surprising."

    "Why would a merchant, if it was a merchant, of

 Silverymoon find himself walking in Taddio's worthless shanty

 town?" Hand asked, echoing Kadran's suspicions perfectly.

    "Indeed, I thought it curious that anyone carrying such a

 treasure of more than two gold pieces would be in that

 region," Kadran agreed, pursing his lips and twisting his

 mouth in his customary manner that sent one side of his long

 and curvy mustache up far higher than the other, giving his

 whole dark face an unbalanced appearance. "Now it seems to

 have become more curious by far."

    "A man who wandered into Calimport probably came in

 through the docks," Hand reasoned, "and found himself lost in

 the myriad of streets and smells. So much of the city looks

 the same, after all. It would not be difficult for a

 foreigner to wander wayward."

    "I do not believe in coincidences," Sharlotta replied.

 She tossed the coin back to Hand. "Take it to one of our

 wizard associates-Giunta the Diviner will suffice. Perhaps

 there remains enough of a trace of the previous owner's

 identity upon the coins that Giunta can locate him."

    "It seems a tremendous effort for one too afraid of the

 boy to even refuse payment," Hand replied.

    "I do not believe in coincidences," Sharlotta repeated.

 "I do not believe that anyone could be so intimidated by that

 pitiful Taddio, unless it is someone who knows that he works

 as a front for Pasha Basadoni. And I do not like the idea

 that one so knowledgeable of our operation took it upon

 himself to wander into our territory unannounced. Was he,

 perhaps, looking for something? Seeking a weakness?" "You

 presume much," Kadran put in. "Only where danger is

 concerned," Sharlotta retorted. "I consider every person an

 enemy until he has proven himself differently, and I find

 that in knowing my enemies, I can prepare against anything

 they might send against me."

    There was little mistaking the irony of her words, aimed

 as they were at Kadran Gordeon, but even the dangerous

 soldier had to nod his agreement with Sharlotta's perception

 and precaution. It wasn't every day that a merchant bearing

 coins from far away Silverymoon wandered into one of

 Calimport's desolate shanty towns.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    He knew this house better than any in all the city.

 Within those brown, unremarkable walls, within the wrapper of

 a common warehouse, hung golden-stitched tapestries and

 magnificent weapons. Beyond the always barred side door,

 where an old beggar now huddled for meager shelter, lay a

 room of beautiful dancing ladies, all swirling veils and

 alluring perfumes, warm baths in scented water, and cuisine

 delicacies from every corner of the Realms.

    This house had belonged to Pasha Pook. After his demise,

 it had been given by Entreri's archenemy to Regis the

 halfling, who had ruled briefly, until Entreri had decided

 the little fool had ruled long enough. When Entreri had left

 Calimport with Regis, the last time he had seen the dusty

 city, the house was in disarray, with several factions

 fighting for power. He suspected that Quentin Bodeau, a

 veteran burglar with more than twenty years' experience in

 the guild, had won the fight. What he didn't know, given the

 confusion and outrage within the ranks, was whether the fight

 had been worth winning. Perhaps another guild had moved into

 the territory. Perhaps the inside of this brown warehouse was

 now as unremarkable as the outside.

    Entreri chuckled at the possibilities, but they could not

 find any lasting hold within his thoughts. Perhaps he would

 eventually sneak into the place, just to satisfy his mild

 curiosity. Perhaps not.

    He lingered by the side door, moving close enough past

 the apparently one-legged beggar, to recognize the cunning

 tie that bound his second leg up tight against the back of

 his thigh. The man was a sentry, obviously, and most of the

 few copper coins that Entreri saw within the opened sack

 before him had been placed there by the man, salting the

 purse and heightening the disguise.

    No matter, the assassin thought. Playing the part of an

 ignorant visitor to Calimport, he walked up before the man

 and reached into his own purse, producing a silver coin and

 dropping it in the sack. He noted the not-really-old man's

 eyes flicker open a bit wider when he pulled back his cloak

 to go to his purse, revealing the hilt of his unique jeweled

 dagger, a weapon well known in the alleys and shadows of

 Calimport.

    Had he been foolish in showing that weapon? Entreri

 wondered as he walked away. He hadn't any intention of

 revealing himself when he came to this place, but also, he

 had no intention of not revealing himself. The question and

 the worry, like his musing on the fate of Pook's house, found

 no hold in his wandering thoughts. Perhaps he had erred.

 Perhaps he had shown the dagger in a desperate bid for some

 excitement. And perhaps the man had recognized it as the mark

 of Entreri, or possibly he had noticed it only because it was

 indeed a truly beautiful weapon.

    It didn't matter.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    LaValle worked very hard to keep his breathing steady and

 to ignore the murmurs of those nervous associates beside him

 as he peered deeply into the crystal ball later that same

 night. The agitated sentry had reported the incident outside,

 a gift of a strange coin from a man walking with the quiet

 and confident gait of a warrior and wearing a dagger

 befitting the captain of a king's guard.

    The description of that dagger had sent the more veteran

 members of the house, the wizard LaValle included, into a

 frenzy. Now LaValle, a longtime associate of the deadly

 Artemis Entreri, who had seen that dagger many times and

 uncomfortably close far too often had used that prior

 knowledge and his crystal ball to seek out the stranger. His

 magical eyes combed the streets of Calimport, sifting from

 shadow to shadow, and then he felt the growing image and knew

 indeed that the dagger, Entreri's dagger, was back in the

 city. Now as the image began to take shape, the wizard and

 those standing beside him, a very nervous Quentin Bodeau and

 two younger cocky killers, would learn if it was indeed the

 deadliest of assassins who carried it.

    A small bedroom drifted into focus.

    "That is Tomnoddy's Inn," explained Dog Perry, who called

 himself Dog Perry the Heart because of his practice of

 cutting out a victim's heart fast enough that the dying man

 could witness its last beats (though none other than Dog

 Perry himself had ever actually seen this feat performed).

    LaValle held up a hand to silence the man as the image

 became sharper, focusing on the belt looped over the bottom

 post of the bed, a belt that included the telltale dagger.

    "It is Entreri's," Quentin Bodeau said with a groan.

    A man walked past the belt, stripped to the waist,

 revealing a body honed by years and years of hard practice,

 muscles twitching with every movement.

    Quentin put on a quizzical expression, studying the man,

 the long hair, the goatee and scratchy, unkempt beard. He had

 always known Entreri to be meticulous in every detail, a

 perfectionist to the extreme. He looked to LaValle for an

 answer.

    "It is he," the wizard, who knew Artemis Entreri perhaps

 better than anyone else in all the city, answered grimly.

    "What does that mean?" Quentin asked. "Has he returned as

 friend or foe?"

    "Indifferent, more likely," LaValle replied. "Artemis

 Entreri has always been a free spirit, never showing

 allegiance too greatly to any particular guild. He wanders

 through the treasuries of each, hiring to the highest bidder

 for his exemplary services." As he spoke, the wizard glanced

 over at the two younger killers, neither of whom knew Entreri

 other than by reputation. Chalsee Anguaine, the younger,

 tittered nervously-and wisely, LaValle knew-but Dog Perry

 squinted his eyes as he considered the man in the crystal

 ball. He was jealous, LaValle understood, for Dog Perry

 wanted, above all else, that which Entreri possessed: the

 supreme reputation as the deadliest of assassins.

    "Perhaps we should find a need for his services quickly,"

 Quentin Bodeau reasoned, obviously trying hard not to sound

 nervous, for in the dangerous world of Calimport's thieving

 guilds, nervousness equalled weakness. "In that way we might

 better learn the man's intentions and purpose in returning to

 Calimport."

    "Or we could just kill him," Dog Perry put in, and

 LaValle bit back a chuckle at the so-predictable viewpoint

 and also at his knowledge that Dog Perry simply did not

 understand the truth of Artemis Entreri. No friend or fan of

 the brash young thug, LaValle almost hoped that Quentin would

 give Dog Perry his wish and send him right out after Entreri.

    But Quentin, though he had never dealt with Entreri

 personally, remembered well the many, many stories of the

 assassin's handiwork, and the expression the guildmaster

 directed at Dog Perry was purely incredulous.

    "Hire him if you need him," said LaValle. "Or if not,

 then merely watch him without threat."

    "He is one man, and we are a guild of a hundred," Dog

 Perry protested, but no one was listening to him anymore.

    Quentin started to reply, but stopped short, though his

 expression told LaValle exactly what he was thinking. He

 feared that Entreri had come back to take the guild,

 obviously, and not without some rationale. Certainly the

 deadliest of assassins still had many powerful connections

 within the city, enough for Entreri, with his own amazing

 skills, to topple the likes of Quentin Bodeau. But LaValle

 did not think Quentin's fears well-founded, for the wizard

 understood Entreri enough to realize that the man had never

 craved such a position of responsibility. Entreri was a

 loner, not a guildmaster. After he had deposed the halfling

 Regis from his short rein as guildmaster, the place had been

 Entreri's for the taking, and yet he had walked away, just

 walked out of Calimport altogether, leaving all of the others

 to fight it out.

    No, LaValle did not believe that Entreri had come back to

 take this guild or any other, and he did well to silently

 convey that to the nervous Quentin. "Whatever our ultimate

 choices, it seems obvious to me that we should first merely

 observe our dangerous friend," the wizard said, for the

 benefit of the two younger lieutenants, "to learn if he is

 friend, foe, or indifferent. It makes no sense to go against

 one as strong as Entreri until we have determined that we

 must, and that, I do not believe to be the case."

    Quentin nodded, happy to hear the confirmation, and with

 a bow LaValle took his leave, the others following suit.

    "If Entreri is a threat, then Entreri should be

 eliminated," Dog Perry said to the wizard, catching up to him

 in the corridor outside his room. "Master Bodeau would have

 seen that truth had your advice been different."

    LaValle stared long and hard at the upstart, not

 appreciating being talked to in that manner from one half his

 age and with so little experience in such matters, for

 LaValle had been dealing with dangerous killers such as

 Artemis Entreri before Dog Perry was even born. "I'll not say

 that I disagree with you," he said to the man.

    "Then why your counsel to Bodeau?"

    "If Entreri has come into Calimport at the request of

 another guild, then any move by Master Bodeau could bring

 dire consequences to our guild," the wizard replied,

 improvising as he went, for he didn't believe a word of what

 he was saying. "You know that Artemis Entreri learned his

 trade under Pasha Basadoni himself, of course."

    "Of course," Dog Perry lied.

    LaValle struck a pensive pose, tapping one finger across

 his pursed lips. "It may prove to be no problem at all to

 us," he explained. "Surely when news of Entreri's return-an

 older and slower Entreri, you see, and one, perhaps, with few

 connections left within the city-spreads across the streets,

 the dangerous man will himself be marked."

    "He has made many enemies," Dog Perry reasoned eagerly,

 seeming quite intrigued by LaValle's words and tone.

    LaValle shook his head. "Most enemies of the Artemis

 Entreri who left Calimport those years ago are dead," the

 wizard explained. "No, not enemies, but rivals. How many

 young and cunning assassins crave the power that they might

 find with a single stroke of the blade?"

    Dog Perry narrowed his eyes, just beginning to catch on.

    "One who kills Entreri, in essence, claims credit for

 killing all of those whom Entreri killed," LaValle went on.

 "With a single stroke of the blade might such a reputation be

 earned. The killer of Entreri will almost instantly become

 the highest priced assassin in all the city." He shrugged and

 held up his hands, then pushed through his door, leaving an

 obviously intrigued Dog Perry standing in the hallway with

 the echoes of his words.

    In truth, LaValle hardly cared whether the young

 troublemaker took those words to heart or not, but he was

 indeed concerned about the return of the assassin. Entreri

 unnerved the wizard, more so than all the other dangerous

 characters that LaValle had worked beside over the many

 years. LaValle had survived by posing a threat to no one, by

 serving without judgment whomever it was that had come to

 power in the guild. He had served Pasha Pook admirably, and

 when Pook had been disposed, he had switched his allegiance

 easily and completely to Regis, convincing even Regis's

 protective dark elf and dwarven friends that he was no

 threat. Similarly, when Entreri had gone against Regis,

 LaValle had stepped back and let the two decide the issue

 (though, of course, there had never been any doubt whatsoever

 in LaValle's mind as to which of those two would triumph),

 then throwing his loyalty to the victor. And so it had gone,

 down the line, master after master during the tumult

 immediately following

    Entreri's departure, to the present incarnation of

 guildmaster, Quentin Bodeau.

    Concerning Entreri, though, there remained one subtle

 difference. Over the decades, LaValle had built a

 considerable insulating defense about him. He worked very

 hard to make no enemies in a world where everyone seemed to

 be in deadly competition, but he also understood that even a

 benign bystander could get caught and slaughtered in the

 common battles. Thus he had built a defense of powerful magic

 and felt that if one such as Dog Perry decided, for whatever

 reason, that he would be better off without LaValle around,

 he would find the wizard more than ready and able to defend

 himself. Not so with Entreri, LaValle knew, and that is why

 even the sight of the man so unnerved him. In watching the

 assassin over the years, LaValle had come to know that where

 Entreri was concerned, there simply weren't enough defenses.

    He sat on his bed until very late that night, trying to

 remember every detail of every dealing he had ever had with

 the assassin and trying to figure out what, if anything in

 particular, had brought Entreri back to Calimport.

    

                            Chapter 2

                         RUNNING THE HORSE

  

    Their pace held slow but steady. The springtime tundra,

 the hardening grasp of ice dissipating, had become like a

 great sponge, swelling in places to create mounds higher even

 than Wulfgar. The ground was sucking at their boots with

 every step, as if it were trying desperately to hold them.

 Drizzt, the lightest on his feet, had the easiest time of it-

 of those walking, at least. Regis, sitting comfortably up

 high on the shoulders of an uncomplaining Wulfgar, felt no

 muddy wetness in his warm boots. Still, the other three, who

 had spent so many years in Icewind Dale and were accustomed

 to the troubles of springtime travel, plodded on without

 complaint. They knew from the outset that the slowest and

 most tiresome part of their journey would be the first leg,

 until they got around the western edges of the Spine of the

 World and out of Icewind Dale.

    Every now and then they found patches of great stones,

 the remnants of a road built long ago from Ten Towns to the

 western pass, but these did little more than assure them that

 they were on the right path, something that seemed of little

 importance in the vast open stretches of the tundra. All they

 really had to do was keep the towering mountains to the

 south, and they would not lose their way.

    Drizzt led them and tried to pick a course that followed

 the thickest regions of sprouting yellow grass, for this, at

 least, afforded some stability atop the slurpy ground. Of

 course-and the drow and his Mends knew it-tall grass might

 also serve as camouflage for the dangerous tundra yetis,

 always hungry beasts that often feasted on unwary travelers.

    With Drizzt Do'Urden leading them, though, the friends

 did not consider themselves unwary.

    They put the river far behind them and found yet another

 stretch of that ancient road when the sun was halfway to the

 western horizon. There, just beyond one long rock slab, they

 also came upon some recent tracks.

    "Wagon," Catti-brie remarked, seeing the long lines of

 deep grooves.

    "Two," Regis commented, noting the twin lines at each

 groove.

    Catti-brie shook her head. "One," she corrected,

 following the tracks, noting how they sometimes joined and

 other times separated, and always with a wider track as they

 moved apart. "Sliding in the mud as it rolled along, its back

 end often unaligned with the front."

    "Well done," Drizzt congratulated her, for he, too, had

 come to the same conclusion. "A single wagon traveling east

 and not more than a day ahead of us."

    "A merchant wagon left Bremen three days before we

 arrived there," Regis, always current on the goings-on of Ten

 Towns, commented.

    "Then it would seem they are having great difficulty

 navigating the marshy ground," Drizzt replied.

    "And might be other troubles they're findin'," came

 Bruenor's call from a short distance to the side, the dwarf

 stooping low over a small hump of grass.

    The friends moved to join him and saw immediately his

 cause for concern: several tracks pressed deep into the mud.

    "Yetis," the dwarf said distastefully. "And they came

 right to the wagon tracks and then went back. They're knowin'

 this for a used trail or I'm a bearded gnome."

    "And the yeti tracks are more recent," Catti-brie

 remarked, noting the water still within them.

    Up on Wulfgar's shoulders, Regis glanced around

 nervously, as if he expected a hundred of the shaggy beasts

 to leap out at them.

    Drizzt, too, bent low to study the depressions and began

 to shake his head.

    "They are recent," Catti-brie insisted.

    "I do not disagree with your assessment of the time," the

 drow explained. "Only with the identification of the

 creature."

    "Not a horse," Bruenor said with a grunt. "Unless that

 horse's lost two legs. A yeti, and a damned big one."

    "Too big," the drow explained. "Not a yeti, but a giant."

    "Giant?" the dwarf echoed skeptically. "We're ten miles

 from the mountains. What's a giant doing out here?"

    "What indeed?" the drow answered, his grim tone giving

 the answer clear enough. Giants rarely came out of the Spine

 of the World Mountains, and then only to cause mischief.

 Perhaps this was a single rogue- that would be the best

 scenario-or perhaps it was an advanced scout for a larger and

 more dangerous group.

    Bruenor cursed and dropped the head of his many-notched

 axe hard into the soft turf. "If ye're thinkin' o' walking

 all the way back to the durned towns, then be thinkin' again,

 elf," he said. "Sooner I'm outta this mud, the better. The

 towns've been livin' well enough without our help all these

 years. They're not needin' us to turn back now!"

    "But if they are giants-" Catti-brie started to argue,

 but Drizzt cut her short.

    "I've no intention of turning back," he said. "Not yet.

 Not until we have proof that these tracks foretell a greater

 disaster than one, or even a handful, of giants could

 perpetrate. No, our road remains east, and all the quicker

 because I now hope to catch that lone wagon before the fall

 of darkness, or soon after if we must continue on. If the

 giant is part of a rogue hunting group and it knows of the

 wagon's recent passage, then the Bremen merchants might soon

 be in dire need of our help."

    They set off at a swifter pace, following the wagon

 tracks, and within a couple of hours they saw the merchants

 struggling with a loose and wobbly wagon wheel. Two of the

 five men, obviously the hired guards, pulled hard to try and

 lift the carriage while a third, a young and strong merchant

 whom Regis identified as Master Camlaine the scrimshaw

 trader, worked hard, though hardly successfully, to realign

 the tilted wheel. Both the guards had sunk past their ankles

 into the mud, and though they struggled mightily, they could

 hardly get the carriage up high enough for the fit.

    How the faces of all five brightened when they noted the

 approach of Drizzt and his friends, a well-known company of

 heroes indeed among the folk of Icewind Dale.

    "Well met, I should say, Master Do'Urden!" the merchant

 Camlaine cried. "Do lend us the strength of your barbarian

 friend. I will pay you well, I promise. I am to be in Luskan

 in a fortnight, yet if our luck holds as it has since we left

 Bremen, I fear that winter will find us still in the dale."

    Bruenor handed his axe to Catti-brie and motioned to

 Wulfgar. "Come on, boy," he said. "Ye'll play come-along and

 I'll show ye an anvil pose."

    With a nonchalant shrug, Wulfgar brought Regis swinging

 down from his shoulders and set him on the ground. The

 halfling moaned and rushed to a pile of grass, not wanting to

 get mud all over his new boots.

    "Ye think ye can lift it?" Bruenor asked Wulfgar as the

 huge man joined him by the wagon. Without a word, without

 even putting down his magnificent warhammer Aegis-fang,

 Wulfgar grabbed the wagon and pulled hard. The mud slurped

 loudly in protest, grabbing and clinging, but in the end it

 could not resist, and the wheel came free of the soupy

 ground.

    The two guards, after a moment of disbelief, found

 handholds and similarly pulled, hoisting the wagon even

 higher. Down to hands and knees went Bruenor, setting his

 bent back under the axle right beside the wheel. "Go ahead

 and set the durned thing," he said and then he groaned as the

 weight came upon him.

    Wulfgar took the wheel from the struggling merchant and

 pulled it into line, then pushed it more securely into place.

 He took a step back, took up Aegis-fang in both hands, and

 gave it a good whack, setting it firmly. Bruenor gave a grunt

 from the suddenly shifting weight, and Wulfgar moved to lift

 the wagon again, just a few inches, so that Bruenor could

 slip out from under it. Master Camlaine inspected the work,

 turning about with a bright smile and nodding his approval.

    "You could begin a new career, good dwarf and mighty

 Wulfgar," he said with a laugh. "Wagon repair."

    "There is an aspiration fit for a dwarven king," Drizzt

 remarked, coming over with Catti-brie and Regis. "Give up

 your throne, good Bruenor, and fix the carts of wayward

 merchants."

    They all had a laugh at that, except for Wulfgar, who

 simply seemed detached from it all, and for Regis, still

 fretting over his muddy boots.

    "You are far out from Ten Towns," Camlaine noted, "with

 nothing to the west. Are you leaving Icewind Dale once more?"

    "Briefly," Drizzt replied. "We have business in the

 south."

    "Luskan?"

    "Beyond Luskan," the drow explained. "But we will indeed

 be going through that city, it would seem."

    Camlaine brightened, obviously happy to hear that bit of

 news. He reached to a jingling purse on his belt, but Drizzt

 held up a hand, thinking it ridiculous that the man should

 offer to pay.

    "Of course," Camlaine remarked, embarrassed, remembering

 that Bruenor Battlehammer was indeed a dwarven king, wealthy

 beyond anything a simple merchant could ever hope to achieve.

 "I wish there was some way I ... we, could repay you for your

 help. Or even better, I wish that there was some way I could

 bribe you into accompanying us to Luskan. I have hired fine

 and able guards, of course," he added, nodding to the two

 men. "But Icewind Dale remains a dangerous place, and

 friendly swords-or warhammers or axes-are always welcomed."

    Drizzt looked to his friends and, seeing no objections,

 nodded. "We will indeed travel with you out of the dale," he

 said.

    "Is your mission urgent?" the scrimshaw merchant asked.

 "Our wagon has been dragging more than rolling, and our team

 is weary. We had hoped to repair the wheel and then find a

 suitable campsite, though there yet remain two or three hours

 of daylight."

    Drizzt looked to his friends and again saw no complaints

 there. The group, though their mission to go to the Spirit

 Soaring and destroy Crenshinibon was indeed vital, was in no

 great hurry. The drow found a campsite, a relatively high

 bluff not so far away and they all settled down for the

 night. Camlaine offered his new companions a fine meal of

 rich venison stew. They passed the meal with idle chatter,

 with Camlaine and his four companions doing most of the

 talking, stories about problems in Bremen over the winter,

 mostly, and about the first catch of the prized knucklehead

 trout, the fish that provided the bone material for the

 scrimshaw. Drizzt and the others listened politely, not

 really interested. Regis, however, who had lived on the banks

 of Maer Dualdon and had spent years making scrimshaw pieces

 of his own, begged Camlaine to show him the finished wares he

 was taking to Luskan. The halfling poured over each piece for

 a long while, studying every detail.

    "Ye think we'll be seeing them giants this night?" Catti-

 brie asked Drizzt quietly, the two moving off to the side of

 the main group.

    The drow shook his head. "The one who happened upon the

 tracks turned back for the mountains," he said. "Likely, he

 was merely checking the route. I had feared that he then went

 in pursuit of the wagon, but since Camlaine and his crew were

 not so far away, and since we saw no other sign of any

 behemoth, I do not expect to see him."

    "But he might be bringing trouble to the next wagon

 along," Catti-brie reasoned.

    Drizzt conceded the point with a nod and a smile, a look

 that grew more intense as he and the beautiful woman locked

 stares. There had been a notable strain between them since

 the return of Wulfgar, for in the six years of Wulfgar's

 absence, Drizzt and Catti-brie had forged a deeper

 friendship, one bordering on love. But now Wulfgar, who had

 been engaged to marry Catti-brie at the time of his apparent

 death, was back, and things between the drow and the woman

 had become far more complicated.

    Not at this moment, though. For some reason that neither

 of the friends could understand, for this one second, it was

 as if they were the only two people in all the world, or as

 if time had stopped all around them, freezing the others in a

 state of oblivion.

    It didn't last, not more than a brief moment, for a

 commotion at the other side of the encampment drew the two

 apart. When she looked past Drizzt, Catti-brie found Wulfgar

 staring at them hard. She locked eyes with the man, but

 again, it was only for a moment. One of Camlaine's guards

 standing behind Wulfgar, called to the group, waving his arms

 excitedly.

    "Might be that our giant friend decided to show its ugly

 face," Catti-brie said to Drizzt. When they joined the

 others, the guard was pointing out toward another bluff, this

 one an oozing mud mound pushed up like a miniature volcano by

 the shifting tundra.

    "Behind that," the guard said.

    Drizzt studied the mound intently; Catti-brie pulled

 Taulmaril, the Heartseeker bow, from her shoulder and set an

 arrow.

    "Too small a pimple for a giant to hide behind," Bruenor

 insisted, but the dwarf clutched his axe tightly as he spoke.

    Drizzt nodded his agreement. He looked to Catti-brie and

 to Wulfgar alternately, motioning that they should cover him.

 Then he sprinted away, picking a careful and quiet path that

 brought him right to the base of the mound. With a glance

 back to ensure that his friends were ready, the drow skipped

 up the side of the mound, his twin scimitars drawn.

    And then he relaxed, and put his deadly blades away, as a

 man, a huge man wearing a wolf-skin wrap, came out around the

 base into plain sight.

    "Kierstaad, son of Revjak," Catti-brie remarked.

    "Following his hero," Bruenor added, looking up at

 Wulfgar, for it was no secret to any of them, or to any of

 the barbarians of Icewind Dale, that Kierstaad idolized

 Wulfgar. The young man had even stolen Aegis-fang and

 followed the companions along when they had gone out onto the

 Sea of Moving Ice to rescue Wulfgar from the demon, Errtu. To

 Kierstaad, Wulfgar symbolized the greatness that the tribes

 of Icewind Dale might achieve and the greatness that he, too,

 so desired.

    Wulfgar frowned at the sight.

    Kierstaad and Drizzt exchanged a few words, then both

 moved back to the main group. "He has come for a word with

 Wulfgar," the drow explained.

    "To beg for the survival of the tribes," Kierstaad

 admitted, staring at his barbarian kin.

    "The tribes fare well under the care of Berkthgar the

 Bold," Wulfgar insisted.

    "They do not!" Kierstaad replied harshly, and the others

 took that as their cue to give the two men some space.

 "Berkthgar understands the old ways, that is true," Kierstaad

 went on. "But the old ways do not offer the hope of anything

 greater than the lives we have known for centuries. Only

 Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, can truly unite the tribes and

 strengthen our bond with the folk of Ten Towns."

    "That would be for the better?" Wulfgar asked

 skeptically.

    "Yes!" Kierstaad replied without hesitation. "No longer

 should any tribesman starve because the winter is difficult.

 No longer should we be so completely dependent upon the

 caribou herd. Wulfgar, with his friends, can change our ways

 ... can lead us to a better place."

    "You speak foolishness," Wulfgar said, waving his hand

 and turning from the man. But Kierstaad wouldn't let him get

 away that easily. The young man ran up behind and grabbed

 Wulfgar roughly by the arm, turning him about.

    Kierstaad started to offer yet another argument, started

 to explain that Berkthgar still considered the folk of Ten

 Towns, even the dwarven folk of Wulfgar's own adoptive

 father, more as enemies than as allies. There were so many

 things that young Kierstaad wanted to say to Wulfgar, so many

 arguments to make to the big man, to try and convince him

 that his place was with the tribes. But all those words went

 flying away as Kierstaad went flying away, for Wulfgar turned

 about viciously, following the young man's pull, and brought

 his free arm swinging about, slugging the young man heavily

 in the chest and launching him into a short flight and then a

 backward roll down the side of the bluff.

    Wulfgar turned away with a low, feral growl, storming

 back to his supper bowl. Protests came at him from every

 side, particularly from Catti-brie. "Ye didn't have to hit

 the boy," she yelled, but Wulfgar only waved his hand at her

 and snarled again, then went back to his food.

    Drizzt was the first one down to Kierstaad's side. The

 young barbarian was lying facedown in the muck at the bottom

 of the bluff. Regis came along right behind, offering one of

 his many handkerchiefs to wipe some of the mud from

 Kierstaad's face-and also to allow the man to save some

 measure of pride and quietly wipe the welling tears from his

 eyes.

    "He must understand," Kierstaad remarked, starting back

 up the hill, but Drizzt had him firmly by the arm, and the

 young barbarian did not truly fight against the pull.

    "This matter was already resolved," the drow said,

 "between Wulfgar and Berkthgar. Wulfgar made his choice, and

 that choice was the road."

    "Blood before friends-that is the rule of the tribes,"

 Kierstaad argued. "And Wulfgar's blood kin need him now."

    Drizzt tilted his head, and a knowing expression came

 over his fair, ebon-skinned face, a look that settled

 Kierstaad more than any words ever could. "Is it so?" the

 drow asked calmly. "Do the tribes need Wulfgar, or does

 Kierstaad need him?"

    "What do you mean?" the young man stammered, obviously

 embarrassed.

    "Berkthgar has been angry with you for a long time," the

 drow explained. "Perhaps you will not find a position that

 pleases you while Berkthgar rules the tribes."

    Kierstaad pulled roughly away; his face screwed up with

 anger. "This is not about Kierstaad's position within the

 tribes," he insisted. "My people need Wulfgar, and so I have

 come for him."

    "He'll not follow you," Regis said. "Nor can you drag

 him, I would guess."

    Frustration evident on his face, Kierstaad began

 clenching and unclenching his fists at his side. He looked up

 the bluff, then took a step that way, but agile Drizzt moved

 quickly in front of him.

    "He'll not follow," the drow said. "Even Berkthgar begged

 Wulfgar to remain and to lead, but that, by Wulfgar's own

 words, is not his place at this time."

    "But it is!"

    "No!" Drizzt said forcefully, stopping Kierstaad's

 further arguments cold. "No, and not only because Wulfgar has

 determined that it is not his place. Truly I was relieved to

 learn that he did not accept the leadership from Berkthgar,

 for I, too, care about the welfare of the tribes of Icewind

 Dale."

    Even Regis looked at the drow with surprise at that

 seemingly illogical reasoning.

    "You do not believe Wulfgar to be the rightful leader?"

 Kierstaad asked incredulously.

    "Not at this time," Drizzt replied. "Can any of us

 appreciate the agony the man has suffered? Or can we measure

 the lingering effects of Errtu's torments? No, Wulfgar is not

 now fit to lead the tribes-he is having a difficult enough

 time leading himself."

    "But we are his kin," Kierstaad tried to argue, but as he

 spoke them the words sounded lame even to him. "If Wulfgar

 feels pain, then he should be with us, in our care."

    "And how might you tend the wounds that tear at Wulfgar's

 heart?" Drizzt asked. "No, Kierstaad. I applaud your

 intentions, but your hopes are false. Wulfgar needs time to

 remember who he truly is, to remember all that was once

 important to him. He needs time, and he needs his friends,

 and though I'll not argue your contention of the importance

 of blood kin, I tell you now in all honesty that those who

 love Wulfgar the most are here, not back with the tribes."

    Kierstaad started to reply but only huffed and stared

 emptily back up the bluff, having no practical rebuttal.

    "We will return soon enough," the drow explained. "Before

 the turn of winter, I hope, or in the spring soon after, at

 the latest. Perhaps Wulfgar will find again his heart and

 soul on the road with his friends. Perhaps he will return to

 Icewind Dale ready to assume the leadership that he truly

 deserves and that the tribes truly deserve."

    "And if not?" Kierstaad asked.

    Drizzt only shrugged. He was beginning to understand the

 depth of Wulfgar's pain and could make no guarantees.

    "Keep him safe," Kierstaad said.

    Drizzt nodded.

    "On your word," the young barbarian pressed.

    "We care for each other," the drow replied. "It has been

 that way since before we set out from Icewind Dale to reclaim

 Bruenor's throne in Mithral Hall nearly a decade ago."

    Kierstaad continued to stare up the bluff. "My tribe has

 camped north of here," he explained, starting slowly away.

 "It is not far."

    "Stay with us through the night," the drow offered.

    "Master Camlaine has some fine food," Regis added

 hopefully. Drizzt knew just from the fact that the halfling

 was apparently willing to split the portions an extra way

 that Kierstaad's plight had touched his little friend.

    But Kierstaad, obviously too embarrassed to go back up

 and face Wulfgar, only shook his head and started off to the

 north, across the empty tundra.

    "You should beat him," Regis said, looking back up the

 hill at Wulfgar.

    "How would that help?" the drow asked.

    "I think our large friend could use a bit of humility."

    Drizzt shook his head. "His reaction to Kierstaad's touch

 was just that: a reaction," the drow explained. He was

 beginning to understand Wulfgar's mood a bit more clearly

 now, for Wulfgar's striking of Kierstaad had been wrought of

 no conscious thought. Drizzt recalled his days back in Melee-

 Magthere, the drow school for fighters. In that always

 dangerous environment, where enemies lurked around every

 corner, Drizzt had seen such reactions, had reacted similarly

 on many occasions himself. Wulfgar was back with friends now

 in a safe enough place, but emotionally he was still the

 prisoner of Errtu, his constant defenses still in place

 against the intrusions of the demon and its minions.

    "It was instinctual and nothing more."

    "He could have apologized," Regis replied.

    No, he could not, Drizzt thought, but he kept the notion

 silent. An idea came over the drow then, one that put a

 particularly sparkling twinkle in his lavender eyes, a look

 that Regis had seen many times before.

    "What are you thinking?" the halfling prompted.

    "About giants," Drizzt replied with a coy smile, "and

 about the danger to any passing caravans."

    "You believe that they will come at us this night?"

    "I believe that they are back in the mountains, perhaps

 planning to bring a raiding party to the trail," Drizzt

 answered honestly. "And we would be long gone before they

 ever arrived."

    "Would be?" Regis echoed softly, still studying the

 drow's glowing eyes-no trick of the late-day sun-and the way

 Drizzt's gaze drifted back toward the snowy peaks shining in

 the south. "What are you thinking?" "We cannot wait for the

 giants' return," the drow said. "Nor do I wish to leave any

 future caravans in peril. Perhaps Wulfgar and I should go out

 this night."

    Regis's jaw dropped open, his dumbfounded expression

 bringing a laugh to the drow's lips.

    "In my days with Montolio, the ranger who trained me, I

 learned much about horsemanship," Drizzt began to explain.

    "You plan to take one or both of the merchant's horses to

 go to the mountains?" an incredulous Regis asked.

    "No, no," Drizzt replied. "Montolio had been quite a

 rider in his youth, before he lost his vision, of course. And

 the horses he chose to ride were the strongest and least

 broken by saddles. But he had a technique-he called it

 'running the horse'-to calm the steeds enough so that they

 would behave. He would bring them out in an open field on a

 long lead and snap a whip behind them repeatedly to get them

 running in wide and hard circles, even to get them bucking."

    "Would that not only make them less behaved?" the

 halfling asked, for he knew little about horses.

    Drizzt shook his head. "The strongest of horses possesses

 too much energy, Montolio explained to me. Thus, he would

 take them out and let them release that extra layer, and when

 he would then climb on their backs they would ride strong but

 in control."

    Regis shrugged and nodded, accepting the story. "What has

 that to do with Wulfgar?" he asked, but his expression

 changed to one of understanding even as the question came out

 of his mouth. "You plan to run Wulfgar as Montolio ran the

 horses," he reasoned.

    "Perhaps he needs a good fight," Drizzt replied. "And

 truly I wish to rid the region of any trouble with giants."

    "It will take you hours to get to the mountains," Regis

 estimated, looking to the south. "Perhaps longer if the

 giants' trail is not clear to follow."

    "But we will move much quicker than you three if you

 stay, as we promised, with Camlaine," the drow replied.

 "Wulfgar and I will be back beside you within two or three

 days, long before you've turned the corner around the Spine

 of the World."

    "Bruenor will not like being left out," Regis remarked.

    "Then do not tell him," the drow instructed. Then, before

 Regis could offer the expected reply, he added, "Nor should

 you tell Catti-brie. Explain to them only that Wulfgar and I

 set out in the night, and that I promised to return the day

 after tomorrow."

    Regis gave a frustrated sigh-once before Drizzt had run

 off, promising Regis to secrecy, and a frantic Catti-brie had

 nearly beat the information out of the halfling. "Why am I

 always the one to hold your secrets?" he asked.

    "Why are you always sniffing where your nose does not

 belong?" Drizzt answered with a laugh.

    The drow caught up to Wulfgar on the far side of the

 encampment. The big man was sitting alone, absently tossing

 stones down to the ground. He did not look up, nor did he

 offer any apologetic expressions, burying them beneath a wall

 of anger.

    Drizzt sympathized completely and recognized the torment

 simmering just below the surface. Anger was his friend's only

 defense against those horrible memories. Drizzt crouched low

 and looked into Wulfgar's pale blue eyes, even if the huge

 man did not match the gaze.

    "Do you remember our first fight?" the drow asked slyly.

    Now Wulfgar did turn his stare up at the drow. "Do you

 mean to teach me another lesson?" he asked, his tone showing

 that he was more than ready to accept that challenge.

    The words stung Drizzt profoundly. He recalled his last

 angry encounter with Wulfgar, over the barbarian's treatment

 of Catti-brie those seven years before in Mithral Hall. They

 had fought viciously with Drizzt emerging as victor. And he

 recalled his first fight against Wulfgar, when Bruenor had

 captured the lad and brought him into the dwarven clan in

 Icewind Dale after the barbarians had tried to raid Ten

 Towns. Bruenor had charged Drizzt with training Wulfgar as a

 fighter, and those first lessons between the two had proven

 especially painful for the young and overly proud barbarian.

 But that was not the encounter to which Drizzt was now

 referring.

    "I mean the first time that we fought together side by

 side against a real enemy," he explained.

    Wulfgar's eyes narrowed as he considered the memory, a

 glimpse at his friendship with Drizzt from many years ago.

    "Biggrin and the verbeeg," Drizzt reminded. "You and I

 and Guenhwyvar charging headlong into a lair full of giants."

    The anger melted from Wulfgar's face. He managed a rare

 smile and nodded.

    "A tough one was Biggrin," Drizzt went on. "How many

 times did we hit the behemoth? It took a final throw from you

 to drive the dagger-"

    "That was a long time ago," Wulfgar interrupted. He

 couldn't manage to maintain the smile, but at least he did

 not sink right back into the explosive anger. Wulfgar again

 found a more even keel, much like his detached, almost

 ambivalent attitude when they had first started out on this

 journey.

    "But you do remember?" Drizzt pressed, his grin growing

 across his black face, that telltale twinkle in his lavender

 eyes.

    "Why ..." Wulfgar started to ask, but stopped short and

 sat studying his friend. He hadn't seen Drizzt in such a mood

 in a long, long time, even well before his fateful fight with

 the handmaiden of the demon queen Lolth back in Mithral Hall.

 This was a flash of Drizzt from the days before the quest to

 reclaim the dwarven kingdom, an image of the drow in those

 times when Wulfgar honestly feared that Drizzt's recklessness

 would soon put him and the drow in a situation from which

 they could not escape.

    Wulfgar liked the image.

    "We have some giants readying to waylay travelers on the

 road," the drow said. "Our pace will be slower out of the

 dale, now that we have agreed to accompany

    Master Camlaine. It seems to me that a side journey to

 deal with these dangerous marauders might be in order."

    It was the first hint of an eager sparkle in Wulfgar's

 eye that Drizzt had seen since they had been reunited in the

 ice cave after the defeat of Errtu.

    "Have you spoken with the others?" the barbarian asked.

    "Just me and you," Drizzt explained. "And Guenhwyvar, of

 course. She would not appreciate being left out of this fun."

    The pair left camp long after sunset, waiting for Catti-

 brie, Regis, and Bruenor to fall asleep. With the drow

 leading, having no difficulty in seeing under the starry

 tundra sky, they went straight back to the point where the

 giant and the wagon tracks intersected. There, Drizzt reached

 into a pouch and produced the onyx panther figurine, placing

 it reverently on the ground. "Come to me, Guenhwyvar," he

 called softly.

    A mist came up, swirling about the figurine, growing

 thicker and thicker, flowing and swirling and taking the

 shape of the great panther. Thicker and thicker, and then it

 was no mist circling the onyx likeness, but the panther

 herself. Guenhwyvar looked up at Drizzt with eyes showing an

 intelligence far beyond that indicated by her feline form.

    Drizzt pointed down to the giant track, and Guenhwyvar,

 understanding, led them away.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    She knew as soon as she opened her eyes that something

 was amiss. The camp was quiet, the two merchant guards

 sitting on the bench of the wagon, talking softly.

    Catti-brie shifted up to her elbows to better survey the

 scene. The fire had burned low but was still bright enough to

 cast shadows from the bedrolls. Closest lay Regis, curled in

 a ball so near to the fire that Catti-brie was amazed the

 little fellow hadn't gone up in flames. The mound that was

 Bruenor lay just a bit further back, right where Catti-brie

 had said good night to her adoptive father. The woman sat up,

 then got to one knee, craning her neck, but she could not

 locate two particular forms among the sleeping.

    She started for Bruenor, but changed her mind and went to

 Regis instead. The halfling always seemed to know....

    A gentle shake only made him groan and roll tighter into

 a ball. A rougher shake and a call of his name only had him

 spitting curses and tightening even more.

    Catti-brie kicked him in the rump.

    "Hey!" he protested loudly, coming up suddenly.

    "Where'd they go to?" the woman asked.

    "What're ye about, girl?" came Bruenor's sleepy voice,

 the dwarf awakened by Regis's call.

    "Drizzt and Wulfgar have gone out from camp," she

 explained, then turned her penetrating gaze back over Regis.

    The halfling squirmed under the scrutiny. "Why would I

 know?" he argued, but Catti-brie didn't blink. Regis looked

 to Bruenor for support, but found the half-dressed dwarf

 ambling over, seeming every bit as perturbed as Catti-brie,

 and apparently ready, like the woman, to direct his ire the

 halfling's way.

    "Drizzt said that they would return to us, and the

 caravan, tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that," the

 halfling admitted.

    "And where'd they go off to?" Catti-brie demanded.

    Regis shrugged, but Catti-brie had him by the collar,

 hoisting him to his feet before he ever finished the motion.

 "Are ye meanin' to play this game again?" she asked.

    "To find Kierstaad and apologize, I would guess," the

 halfling said. "He deserves as much."

    "Good enough if the boy's got an apology in his heart,"

 Bruenor remarked. Seemingly satisfied with that, the dwarf

 turned back for his bedroll.

    Catti-brie, though, stood holding Regis roughly and

 shaking her head. "He's not got it in him," she said, drawing

 the dwarf back into the conversation. "Not now, and that's

 not where they're off to." She moved closer to Regis as she

 spoke, but did let go of him. "Ye need to tell me," she said

 calmly. "Ye can't be playin' this game. If we're to travel

 half the length o' Faerun together, then we're needing a bit

 o' trust, and that ye're not earning."

    "They went after the giants," Regis blurted. He couldn't

 believe that he had said it, but neither could he deny the

 logic of Catti-brie's argument nor the plaintive look in her

 beautiful eyes.

    "Bah!" Bruenor snorted, stomping his bare foot- and

 slamming it so hard that it sounded as if he was wearing

 boots. "By the brains of a pointed-headed ore-cousin! Why

 didn't ye tell us sooner?"

    "Because you would have made me go," Regis argued, but

 his voice lost its angry edge when Catti-brie moved right in

 front of his face.

    "Ye always seem to be knowing too much and tellin' too

 little," she growled. "As when Drizzt left Mithral Hall."

    "I listen," Regis replied with a helpless shrug.

    "Get dressed," Catti-brie instructed Regis, who just

 looked back at her incredulously.

    "Ye heard her!" Bruenor roared.

    "You want to go out there?" the halfling asked, pointing

 to the black emptiness that was the nighttime tundra. "Now?"

    "Won't be the first time I pulled that durned elf from

 the mouth of a tundra yeti," the dwarf snorted, heading for

 his bedroll.

    "Giants," Regis corrected.

    "Even worse, then!" Bruenor roared louder, waking the

 rest of the camp.

    "But we cannot leave," Regis protested, motioning to the

 three merchants and their guardsmen. "We promised to guard

 them. What if the giants come in behind us?"

    That brought a concerned look to the faces of the five

 members of the merchant team, but Catti-brie didn't blink at

 the ridiculous thought. She just kept looking hard at Regis,

 and at his possessions, including the new unicorn-headed mace

 one of Bruenor's smithies had forged for him, a beautiful

 mithral and black steel item with blue sapphires set for the

 eyes.

    With a profound sigh the halfling pulled his tunic on

 over his head.

    They were out within the hour, backtracking to the point

 where wagon track, giant track, and now drow and barbarian

 track, intersected. They had much more difficulty finding it

 than had Wulfgar and Drizzt, with the drow's superior night

 vision. For even though Catti-brie wore an enchanted circlet

 that allowed her to see in the dark, she was no ranger and

 could not match Drizzt's keen senses and training. Bruenor

 bent low, sniffing the ground, then led on through the

 darkness.

    "Probably get swallowed by waiting yetis," Regis

 grumbled.

    "I'll shoot high, then," Catti-brie answered, holding her

 deadly bow out. "Above the belly, so ye won't have a hole in

 ye when we cut ye out."

    Of course Regis continued to grumble, but he kept his

 voice lower, not letting Catti-brie hear clearly so that she

 could not offer any more sarcastic replies.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    They spent the dark hours before the dawn feeling their

 way over the rocky foothills of the Spine of the World.

 Wulfgar complained many times that they must have lost the

 trail, but Drizzt held faith in Guenhwyvar, who kept

 appearing ahead of them, a darker shadow against the night

 sky, high on rocky outcroppings.

    Soon after the break of day, as they moved along a

 winding mountain path, the drow's faith in the panther was

 confirmed as the pair came across a distinctive footprint, a

 huge boot, along a low and muddy depression on the trail.

    "An hour ahead, no more," Drizzt explained, examining the

 print. He looked back at Wulfgar and smiled widely, lavender

 eyes sparkling.

    The barbarian, more than ready for a fight, nodded.

    Following Guenhwyvar's lead, they climbed higher and

 higher until, above them, the land seemed to suddenly

 disappear, the trail ending at a sheer cliff face. Drizzt

 moved up first, shadow to shadow, motioning Wulfgar to follow

 as he determined the way to be clear. They had come to the

 side of a canyon, a deep and rocky ravine bordered on all

 four sides by mountain walls, though the barrier to their

 right, the south, was not complete, leaving one exit from the

 valley floor. At first, they surmised that the giant

 encampment must be down there in the ravine, hidden among the

 boulders, but then Wulfgar spotted a line of smoke drifting

 up from behind a wall of boulders on the cliff wall almost

 directly across the way, some fifty yards from their

 position.

    Drizzt scaled a nearby tree, getting a better angle, and

 soon confirmed that to be the giants' camp. A pair of

 behemoths were sitting behind the sheltering stones, eating a

 meal. The drow surveyed the landscape. He could get around,

 and so could Guenhwyvar, without going down to the valley

 floor.

    "Can you reach them with a hammer throw from here?" he

 asked Wulfgar.

    The barbarian nodded.

    "Lead me in, then," the drow said. With a wink, he

 started off to the left, moving over the lip of the cliff and

 edging along its facing. Guenhwyvar also started off, picking

 a higher route than Drizzt along the cliff face.

    The dark elf moved like a spider, crawling from ledge to

 ledge, while Guenhwyvar went along above him in a series of

 powerful bounds, clearing twenty feet at a leap. Within half

 an hour, amazingly, the drow had moved beyond the northern

 wall, around to the eastern facade and within twenty feet or

 so of the seemingly oblivious giants. He motioned back to

 Wulfgar, then set his feet firmly and took a deep breath. Not

 wanting to be spotted, he had come in slightly below the

 level of the shelf and the boulder wall, and now he measured

 the short run he would have, and then the distance of the

 leap to the giants' shelf. He didn't want to have to use his

 hands to safely land the jump, preferring to come in with

 both scimitars drawn and ready.

    He could make it, he decided, so he looked up at

 Guenhwyvar. The cat was perched on a shelf some thirty feet

 above the giants. Drizzt opened his mouth in a mock roar.

    The great panther responded, only her roar was far from

 silent. It rumbled off the mountain walls, drawing the

 attention of the giants and of any other creatures for miles

 around.

    With a howl, the giants sprang to their feet. The drow

 ran silently along the ledge and leaped for their position.

    Shouting a call to Tempus, the barbarian god of war,

 Wulfgar hoisted Aegis-fang . . . but hesitated, stung by the

 sound of that name. The name of a god he had once worshiped

 but to whom he had not prayed in so many years. A god he felt

 had abandoned him in the pits of the Abyss. Waves of

 emotional turmoil rolled over him, dizzying him, sending him

 careening back to that awful place of Errtu's darkness.

    And leaving Drizzt terribly exposed.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    They had been guessing as much as trailing, for though

 Catti-brie could see well in the dark, her night vision still

 could not match that of the drow, and Bruenor, though skilled

 at tracking, could not match the hunting prowess of

 Guenhwyvar. Still, when they heard the panther's roar echoing

 off the stones about them, they knew their guess had been a

 good one.

    Off they ran, Bruenor's rolling pace matching Catti-

 brie's long and graceful strides. Regis didn't even try to

 catch up, didn't even try to follow the same path. While

 Bruenor and Catti-brie charged off straight in the direction

 of the roar, Regis veered north, following an easier trail,

 smooth but angling upward. The halfling wasn't thrilled with

 the idea of getting into any fights, let alone one against

 giants, but he did truly want to help out. Perhaps he might

 find a higher vantage point from which he could call down

 directions to his friends. Perhaps he might find a place

 where he could throw stones (and he was a pretty good shot)

 at safely distant giants. Perhaps he might find-

    A tree trunk, the halfling thought, a bit distracted as

 he rushed around a bend and bumped into a solid trunk.

    No, not a trunk, Regis realized. Trees did not wear

 boots.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Two giants rose up to search out Guenhwyvar; two giants

 noted the sudden approach of the leaping drow elf. Drizzt

 timed and aimed his leap perfectly, coming to the lip of the

 ledge lightly, in full balance. But he hadn't counted on two

 opponents waiting for him. He had expected Wulfgar's throw to

 take one down, or at least to distract the behemoth long

 enough for the dark elf to find steady footing.

    Improvising quickly, the drow summoned his innate magical

 powers-though few remained after all these years on the

 surface-and brought forth a globe of impenetrable darkness.

 He centered it on the back wall ten feet from the ground so

 that it blocked the sight of the behemoths, but, since the

 globe's radius was about the same length as Drizzt was tall,

 it left their lower legs visible to Drizzt. He went in hard

 and fast, skidding down low and slashing wildly with both his

 scimitars, Twinkle and the newly named Icingdeath.

    The giants kicked and stomped, bent low and swung their

 clubs frantically, and though they were as likely to hit each

 other as the drow, a giant could take a solid hit from

 another giant's club.

    Drizzt could not.

    Damn Errtu! How many evils had he suffered? How many

 attacks upon body and soul? He felt again Biz-matec's pincers

 closing about his neck, felt the dull aches of heavy punches

 as Errtu beat upon him as he lay in the filth, and then the

 sharp sting of fire as the demon dragged him into the flames

 that always surrounded its hideous form. And he felt the

 touch, gentle and alluring, of the succubus, perhaps the

 worst tormentor of all.

    And now his friend needed him. Wulfgar knew that, could

 hear the battle being joined. He should have led the way with

 a throw of Aegis-fang, should have put the giants off

 balance, perhaps even put one down altogether.

    He knew that and wanted desperately to help his friend,

 and yet his eyes were not seeing the fight between Drizzt and

 the giants. They were looking again into the swirls of

 Errtu's prison.

    "Damn you!" the barbarian cried, and he built a wall of

 the sheerest red anger, trying to block the visions with pure

 rage.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    It was easily the largest giant Regis had ever seen,

 towering twenty feet and as wide as buildings Regis had once

 called home. Regis looked at his new mace, his pitifully

 small mace, and doubted that he could even raise a bruise on

 the giant. Then he looked up to see the monster bending

 lower, a huge hand-a hand big enough to grab the halfling and

 squeeze the life out of him-reaching down.

    "A bit of a meal, then?" the huge creature said in a

 voice surprisingly sophisticated for one of its kind. "Not

 much of one, of course, but little's better than nothing."

    Regis sucked in his breath and put his hand over his

 heart, feeling as if he would faint-and then feeling a

 familiar lump by his collarbone. He reached into his tunic

 and pulled out a gemstone, a large ruby dangling at the end

 of a chain. "A pretty thing, don't you think?" he asked

 sheepishly.

    "I think I like my rodents mashed," the giant replied,

 and up went its huge foot, and off ran Regis with a squeak. A

 single long stride put the giant's other foot in front of

 him, though, and he had nowhere to run.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Drizzt rolled over a kicking giant leg, tucking his

 shoulder as he hit the stone and coming back over to his feet

 nimbly, reversing direction and stabbing glowing Twinkle into

 the huge calf. That brought a roar of pain, and then came

 another yell. It was Wulfgar. The barbarian's curse was

 followed by an explosion of stone as something-a relieved

 Drizzt figured it to be Aegis-fang-slammed hard into the

 cliff.

    The missile bounced from the stone wall into the open air

 beyond, where the drow could see that it was a boulder-thrown

 by yet another giant, no doubt- and no warhammer.

    Even worse for Drizzt, one of the giants moved out far

 enough on the ledge to see around the globe of darkness.

 "Argh, ye black-skinned rat!" it said, lifting its club.

    Guenhwyvar soared down thirty feet from her perch to slam

 the bending behemoth on the shoulders, a six-hundred-pound

 missile of slashing claws and biting teeth. Caught by

 surprise and off balance, the giant toppled over the stone

 wall and out into the air, taking Guenhwyvar with it.

    Drizzt, dodging yet another stubborn kick, cried out for

 the cat, but had to turn away, had to focus on the remaining,

 kicking giant.

    As the plummeting giant rolled over Guenhwyvar sprang

 again, flying out wide and far, back toward the cliff where

 Wulfgar stood battling his mental demons.

    The cat slammed hard against a ledge, far below the

 barbarian, and there she desperately clung, battered and

 shaking, while the giant continued its bouncing descent.

 Down, down the giant fell, a hundred feet and more before it

 settled, battered and groaning, upon a rocky outcropping.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Another explosion rocked the ledge where Drizzt battled

 the giant, then a third. The sudden, shocking noise finally

 broke Wulfgar free of his dark memories. He saw Guenhwyvar

 struggling to hold her perch on the ledge, nothing but empty

 air below her all the way to the ravine's floor. He saw

 Drizzt's globe of darkness, and every now and then a flash of

 bluish light as the drow sent his scimitar flying fast under

 the globe but above the blocking boulder wall. He saw the

 giant's head as it came up straight, and he took aim.

    But then another boulder slammed the cliff wall,

 ricocheting off stone and right into the giant's side,

 bending it low into the darkness. And then another hit the

 wall right below Wulfgar's position, nearly shaking him from

 his feet. The barbarian located the throwers, three more

 giants on a ledge down and to the right, well concealed

 behind a barrier of rock, and probably with a cave in the

 cliff wall behind them. The third threw its rock Wulfgar's

 way, and the barbarian had to dive aside to avoid being

 crushed.

    He came up and had to scramble again as two more rocks

 hurtled in.

    With a roar-to no god, but just a primal growl- Wulfgar

 brought Aegis-fang over his head and returned the volley. The

 mighty warhammer sailed end over end to strike the stone

 right before the ducking giants. With a thunderous retort it

 knocked a fair-sized chunk out of the rock wall.

    The giants came up staring, obviously impressed with the

 damage the weapon had inflicted on the stone. When they

 moved, all three clambered all over each other to retrieve

 the weapon.

    But Aegis-fang disappeared, and when it magically

 returned to Wulfgar's grasp, the barbarian could see the

 three giants spread out over the wall in clear view.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Catti-brie and Bruenor came to the lip of the canyon, on

 the same side as Wulfgar but farther to the south, about

 halfway between the barbarian and the three giants. They were

 in time to see the next spinning throw of Aegis-fang. One of

 the giants managed to get back over the protective wall, and

 a second was on its way up when the warhammer crashed in,

 dropping the behemoth onto the back of the third. Solid as

 the hit was, it didn't kill the giant. Nor did the silver-

 streaking magical arrow Catti-brie let fly from Taulmaril,

 scoring a hit on the same giant's back,

    "Bah, ye two're to steal all that danged fun!" Bruenor

 grumbled, skipping off to the south, looking for a way to get

 at the giants. "Gotta make me a dwarven bow!"

    "A bow?" Catti-brie asked skeptically as she set another

 arrow. "When did you learn to work wood?"

    As she finished, Aegis-fang came spinning by once again.

 Bruenor pointed to it emphatically. "Dwarven bow!" he

 explained with a wink, then ran off.

    Though wounded, the three giants did well to regroup. Up

 came the first, a huge stone high over its head.

    Catti-brie's next arrow drove hard into that stone,

 cutting right through it, and the two halves slipped down,

 banging the giant on the head.

    The second giant came up fast, throwing hard for Catti-

 brie, but far wide of the mark. It did get back down in time

 to dodge her next lightning-streaking arrow, though. The bolt

 buried itself hard into the cliff wall.

    The third giant let fly for Wulfgar even as Aegis-fang

 returned to the man's hand, and the barbarian had to dive

 once more to avoid being smashed. Still, the stone rebounded

 from the back wall at an unexpected angle, clipping Wulfgar

 painfully on the hip.

    Looking up to him, Catti-brie saw that he had an even

 greater problem, for beyond him, on the north wall and up

 higher, loomed yet another giant. This one was huge, holding

 a stone over its head that looked as though it could take

 down both the barbarian and the ledge he was standing on.

    "Wulfgar!" Catti-brie cried in warning, thinking the man

 doomed.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Drizzt hadn't witnessed any of the missile exchange,

 though he did get enough of a break from his dodging and

 slashing to see that Guenhwyvar was all right. The panther

 had made it onto the lower ledge, and though obviously

 wounded, seemed more angry at the fact that she could not

 easily get back into the fight.

    The giant's kicks came slower now. As the behemoth tired,

 its legs stun from many deep cuts. The only trouble the swift

 drow had now was making sure that he didn't lose his footing

 in the deepening blood.

    Then he heard Catti-brie's cry and was so startled that

 he slowed too much. The giant's boot caught up to him,

 hitting him squarely and sending him on a tumbling dive to

 the far end of the ledge, beyond the edge of the darkness

 globe. Coming right back to his feet, ignoring the ache,

 Drizzt ran up the stony wall, climbing a dozen feet before

 the giant came out in pursuit, bending low, thinking its prey

 to be on the ground.

    Drizzt dropped on the giant's shoulders, wrapping his

 legs about its neck and double-stabbing his scimitars into

 the sides of its eyes. The behemoth howled and stood

 straight. The monster reached for the source of the pain, but

 the drow was too quick. Rolling over down the giant's back

 and landing nimbly on his feet, Drizzt cut fast for the lip

 of the ledge, hopping to the rocky barricade.

    The giant batted at its torn eyes, blinded by the cuts

 and the blood. It waved its hands frantically and turned

 toward the noise of the drow's movements, lurching to grab

 him.

    But Drizzt was already gone, spinning about the giant and

 chasing it from behind, prodding hard to keep the behemoth

 going as it reached for the ledge, overbalancing. Howling

 with pain, the giant tried to turn around, but that only sent

 Drizzt in even harder, scimitars biting about the stooping

 thing's chin.

    The giant tried to scramble back but fell into the open

 air.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Wulfgar turned around at Catti-brie's call but had no

 time to strike out first or to dodge. Catti-brie got her bow

 up and level, but the huge giant threw first.

    The stone sailed past Wulfgar, past Catti-brie, and

 Bruenor, down to the ledge in the south. Short-hopping off

 the stone-blocking wall, it slammed one giant in the chest,

 throwing it back and to the ground.

    Looking down at her drawn arrow, a stunned Catti-brie

 spotted Regis sitting comfortably on the giant's shoulder.

 "The little rat," she whispered under her breath, truly

 impressed.

    Now all three-giant, Wulfgar and Catti-brie- turned their

 attention to the lower ledge. Lightning arrows streaked in

 one after another, punctuated by a spinning throw of Aegis-

 fang, or the thunderous report of a huge, giant-hurled

 boulder. The sheer force of the barrage soon had the three

 giants dizzy and ducking.

    Aegis-fang clipped one on the shoulder as it tried to run

 out the side down a concealed trail. The force of the hammer

 blow turned it around in time to see the next streaking

 arrow, right before the bolt drove through its ugly face.

 Down it went in a heap. A second giant stepped out, rock high

 to throw, only to catch a huge boulder in the chest and go

 flying away.

    The third, badly wounded, stayed in a crouch behind the

 wall, not even daring to creep back the fifteen feet to the

 cave opening in the wall behind it. Head down, it didn't see

 the dwarf climb into position on a ledge above it, though it

 did look up when it heard the roar of a leaping Bruenor.

    The dwarf king's axe, buried deep into the giant's brain,

 sported yet another notch.

    

                            Chapter 3

                      THE UNPLEASANT MIRROR

  

    Well would you do to this one investigate," Giunta the

 Diviner said to Hand as the man left the wizard's house.

 "Danger I sense, and we both know who it may be, though to

 speak the name we fear."

    Hand mumbled a reply and continued on his way, glad to be

 gone from the excitable wizard and Giunta's particularly

 annoying manner of structuring a sentence, one the wizard

 claimed came from another plane of existence, but that Hand

 merely considered Giunta's way of trying to impress those

 around him. Still, Giunta had his uses, Hand recognized, for

 of the dozen or so wizards the Basadoni house often utilized,

 none could unravel mysteries better than Giunta. From simply

 sensing the emanations of the strange coins Giunta had almost

 completely reconstructed the conversation between Hand,

 Kadran, and Sharlotta, as well as the identity of Taddio as

 the courier of the coins. Looking deeper, Giunta's face had

 turned into a profound frown, and as he had described the

 demeanor and general appearance of the one who had given the

 coins to Taddio, both he and Hand began to put the pieces

 together.

    Hand knew Artemis Entreri. So did Giunta, and it was

 common knowledge among the street folk that Entreri had left

 Calimport in pursuit of the dark elf who had brought about

 the downfall of Pasha Pook, and that the drow was reportedly

 living in some dwarven city not far from Silverymoon.

    Now that his suspicions pointed in a particular

 direction, Hand knew it was time to turn from magical

 information gathering to more conventional methods. He went

 out to the streets, to the many spies, and opened wide the

 eyes of Pasha Basadoni's powerful guild. Then he started back

 to the main house to speak with Sharlotta and Kadran but

 changed his mind. Indeed, Sharlotta had spoken truthfully

 when she had said that she desired knowledge of her enemies.

    Better for Hand that she didn't know.

    His room was hardly fitting for a man who had climbed so

 high among the ranks of the street. This man had been a

 guildmaster, albeit briefly, and could command huge sums of

 money from any house in the city simply as a retainer fee for

 his services. But Artemis Entreri didn't care much about the

 sparse furnishings of the cheap inn, about the dust piled on

 the window sills, about the noise of the street ladies and

 their clients in the adjoining rooms.

    He sat on the bed and thought about his options,

 reconsidering all his movements since returning to Calimport.

 He had been a bit careless, he realized, particularly in

 going to the stupid boy who was now claiming rulership of his

 old shanty town and by showing his dagger to the beggar at

 Pook's old house. Perhaps, Entreri realized, that journey and

 encounter had been no coincidence or bad luck, but by

 subconscious design.

    Perhaps he had wanted to reveal himself to any who would

 look closely enough.

    But what would that mean? he had to wonder now. How had

 the guild structures changed, and where in those new

 hierarchies would Artemis Entreri fit in? Even more

 importantly, where did Artemis Entreri want to fit in?

    Those questions were beyond Entreri at that time, but he

 realized that he could not afford to sit and wait for others

 to find him. He should learn some of the answers, at least,

 before dealing with the more powerful houses of Calimport.

 The hour was late, well past midnight, but the assassin

 donned a dark cloak and went out onto the streets anyway.

    The sights and sounds and smells brought him back to his

 younger days, when he had often allied with the dark of night

 and shunned the light of day. He noticed before he had even

 left the street that many gazes had settled upon him, and he

 sensed that they focused with more than a passing interest,

 more than the attention a foreign merchant might expect.

 Entreri recalled his own days on these streets, the methods

 and speed with which information was passed along. He was

 already being watched, he knew, and probably by several

 different guilds. Possibly the tavern keeper where he was

 staying or one of the patrons, perhaps, had recognized him or

 had recognized enough about him to raise suspicions. These

 people of Calimport's foul belly lived on the edge of

 disaster every minute of every day. Thus they possessed a

 level of alertness beyond anything so many other cultures

 might know. Like grassland field rats, rodents living in

 extensive burrow complexes with thousands and thousands of

 inhabitants, the people of Calimport's streets had designed

 complex warning systems: shouts and whistles, nods, and even

 simple body posture.

    Yes, Entreri knew as he walked along the quiet street,

 his practiced footsteps making not a sound, they were

 watching him.

    The time had come for him to do some looking of his own-

 and he knew where to start. Several turns brought him to

 Avenue Paradise, a particularly seedy place where potent

 herbs and weeds were openly traded, as were weapons, stolen

 goods, and carnal companionship. A mockery of culture itself,

 Avenue Paradise stood as the pinnacle of hedonism among the

 underclass. Here a beggar, if he found a few extra coins that

 day, could, for a few precious moments, feel like a king,

 could surround himself with perfumed ladies and imbibe enough

 mind-altering substances to forget the sores that festered on

 his filthy skin. Here, one like the boy that Entreri had paid

 in his old shanty town could live, for a few hours, the life

 of pasha Basadoni.

    Of course it was all fake, fancy facades on rat-ridden

 buildings, fancy clothes on scared little girls or dead-eyed

 whores, heavily perfumed with cheap smells to hide the months

 of sweat and dust without a proper bath. But even fake luxury

 would suffice for most of the street people, whose constant

 misery was all too real.

    Entreri walked slowly along the street, dismissing his

 introspection and turning his eyes outward, studying every

 detail. He thought he recognized more than one of the older,

 pitiful whores, but in truth, Entreri had never succumbed to

 such unhealthy and tawdry temptations as could be found on

 Avenue Paradise. His carnal pleasures, on those very few

 occasions he took them (for he considered them a weakness to

 one aspiring to be the perfect fighter), came in the harems

 of mighty pashas, and he had never held any tolerance

 whatsoever for anything intoxicating, for anything that

 dulled his keen mind and left him vulnerable. He had come to

 Avenue Paradise often, though, to find others too weak to

 resist. The whores had never liked him, nor had he ever

 bothered with them, though he knew, as did all the pashas,

 that they could be a very valuable source of information.

 Entreri simply could not bring himself to ever trust a woman

 who made her daily life in that particular line of employ.

    So now he spent more time looking at the thugs and

 pickpockets and was amused to learn that one of the

 pickpockets was also studying him. Hiding a grin, he even

 changed his course to bring himself closer to the foolish

 young man.

    Sure enough, Entreri was barely ten strides past when the

 thief came out behind him, walking past and "slipping" at the

 last moment to cover his reach for Entreri's dangling purse.

    A split second later, the would-be thief was off balance,

 turned in and down, with Entreri's hand clamped over the ends

 of his fingers, squeezing the most exquisite pain up the

 man's arm. Out came the jeweled dagger, quietly but quickly,

 its tip poking a tiny hole in the man's palm as Entreri

 turned his shoulder in closer to conceal the movement and

 lessened his paralyzing grip.

    Obviously confused at the relief of pressure on his

 pained hand, the thief moved his free hand to his own belt,

 pulling aside his cloak and grabbing at a long knife.

    Entreri stared hard and concentrated on the dagger,

 instructing it to do its darker work, using its magic to

 begin sucking the very life-force out of the foolish thief.

    The man weakened, his dagger fell harmlessly to the

 street, and both his eyes and his jaw opened wide in a

 horrified, agonized, and ultimately futile attempt at a

 scream.

    "You feel the emptiness," Entreri whispered to him. "The

 hopelessness. You know that I hold not only your life, but

 your very soul in my hands."

    The man didn't, couldn't move.

    "Do you?" Entreri prompted, bringing a nod from the now

 gasping man.

    "Tell me," the assassin bade, "are there any halflings on

 the street this night?" As he spoke, he let up a bit on the

 life-stealing process, and the man's expression shifted

 again, just a bit, to one of confusion.

    "Halflings," the assassin explained, punctuating his

 point by drawing hard on the man's life-force again, so

 forcefully that the only thing holding the man up was

 Entreri's body.

    With his free hand, trembling violently through every

 inch of movement, the thief pointed farther down the avenue

 in the general direction of a few houses that Entreri knew

 well. He thought to ask the man a more focused question or

 two but decided against it, realizing that he might have

 revealed too much of his identity already by the mere hunger

 of his particular jeweled dagger.

    "If I ever see you again, I shall kill you," the assassin

 said with such complete calm that all the blood ran from the

 thief's face. Entreri released him, and he staggered away,

 falling to his knees and crawling on. Entreri shook his head

 in disgust, wondering, and not for the first time, why he had

 ever come back to this wretched city.

    Without even bothering to look and ensure that the thief

 continued away, the assassin strode more quickly down the

 street. If the particular halfling he sought was still about

 and still alive, Entreri could guess which of those buildings

 he might be in. The middle and largest of the three, The

 Copper Ante, had once been a favorite gambling house for many

 of the halflings in the Calimport dock section, mostly

 because of the halfling-staffed brothel upstairs and the

 Thayan brown pipeweed den in the back room. Indeed, Entreri

 did see many (considering that this was Calimport, where

 halflings were scarce) of the little folk scattered about the

 various tables in the common room when he entered. He scanned

 each table slowly, trying to guess what his former friend

 might look like now that several years had passed. The

 halfling would be wider about the belly, no doubt, for he

 loved rich food and had set himself up in a position to

 afford ten meals a day if he so chose.

    Entreri slipped into an open seat at one table where six

 halflings tossed dice, each moving so quickly that it was

 almost impossible for a novice gambler to even tell which

 call the one at the head of the table was making and which

 halfling was grabbing which pot as winnings for which throw.

 Entreri easily sorted it out, though, and found, to his

 amusement but hardly his surprise, that all six were

 cheating. It seemed more a contest of who could grab the most

 coins the fastest than any type of gambling, and all half

 dozen appeared to be equally suited to the task, so much so

 that Entreri figured that each of them would likely leave

 with almost exactly the amount of coins with which he had

 begun.

    The assassin dropped four gold pieces on the table and

 grabbed up some dice, giving a half-hearted throw. Almost

 before the dice stopped rolling, the closest halfling reached

 for the coins, but Entreri was the quicker, slapping his hand

 over the halfling's wrist and pinning it to the table.

    "But you lost!" the little one squeaked, and the flurry

 of movement came to an abrupt halt, the other five looking at

 Entreri and more than one reaching for a weapon. The gaming

 stopped at several other tables, as well, the whole area of

 the common room focusing on the coming trouble.

    "I was not playing," Entreri said calmly, not letting the

 halfling go.

    "You put down money and threw dice," one of the others

 protested. "That is playing."

    Entreri's glare put the complaining halfling back in his

 seat. "I am playing when I say, and not before," he

 explained. "And I only cover bets that are announced openly

 before I throw."

    "You saw how the table was moving," a third dared to

 argue, but Entreri cut him short with an upraised hand and a

 nod.

    He looked to the gambler at his right, the one who had

 reached for the coins, and waited a moment to let the rest of

 the room settle down and go back to their own business. "You

 want the coins? They, and twice that amount above them, shall

 be yours," he explained, and the greedy halfling's expression

 went from one of distress to a gleaming-eyed grin. "I came

 not to play but to ask a simple question. Provide an answer,

 and the coins are yours." As he spoke, Entreri reached into

 his purse and brought out more coins-more than twice the

 number the halfling had grabbed.

    "Well, Master ..." the halfling began.

    "Do'Urden," Entreri replied, with hardly a conscious

 thought, though he had to bite back a chuckle at the irony

 after he heard the name come out of his mouth. "Master

 Do'Urden of Silverymoon."

    All the halflings at the table eyed him curiously, for

 the unusual name sounded familiar to them all. In truth, and

 they came to realize it one by one, they all knew that name.

 It was the name of the dark elven protector of Regis, perhaps

 the highest ranking (albeit for a short while!) and most

 famous halfling ever to walk the streets of Calimport.

    "Your skin has-" the halfling pinned under Entreri's

 grasp started to remark lightheartedly, but he stopped,

 swallowed hard and blanched as he put the pieces together.

 Entreri could see the halfling recall the story of Regis and

 the dark elf, and the one who had subsequently deposed the

 halfling guildmaster and then gone out after the drow.

    "Yes," the halfling said as calmly as he could muster, "a

 question."

    "I seek one of your kind," Entreri explained. "An old

 friend by the name of Dondon Tiggerwillies."

    The halfling put on a confused look and shook his head,

 but not before a flicker of recognition has crossed his dark

 eyes, one the sharp Entreri did not miss.

    "Everyone of the streets knows Dondon," Entreri stated.

 "Or once knew of him. You are not a child, and your gaming

 skills tell me that you have been a regular to the Copper

 Ante for years. You know, or knew, Dondon. If he is dead,

 then I wish to hear the story. If not, then I wish to speak

 with him."

    Grave looks passed from halfling to halfling. "Dead,"

 said one across the table, but Entreri knew from the tone and

 the quick manner in which the diminutive fellow blurted it

 out that it was a lie, that Dondon, ever the survivor, was

 indeed alive.

    Halflings in Calimport always seemed to stick together,

 though.

    "Who killed him?" Entreri asked, playing along.

    "He got sick," another halfling offered, again in that

 quick, telltale manner.

    "And where is he buried?"

    "Who gets buried in Calimport?" the first liar replied.

    "Tossed into the sea," said another.

    Entreri nodded with every word. He was actually a bit

 amused at how these halflings played off each other, building

 an elaborate lie and one the assassin knew he could

 eventually turn against them.

    "Well, you have told me much," he said, releasing the

 halfling's wrist. The greedy gambler immediately went for the

 coins, but a jeweled dagger jabbed down between the reaching

 hand and the desired gems in the blink of a startled eye.

    "You promised coins!" the halfling protested.

    "For a lie?" Entreri calmly asked. "I inquired about

 Dondon outside and was told that he was in here. I know he is

 alive, for I saw him just yesterday."

    The halflings all glanced at each other, trying to piece

 together the inconsistencies here. How had they fallen so

 easily into the trap?

    "Then why speak of him in the past tense?" the halfling

 directly across the table asked, the first to insist that

 Dondon was dead. This halfling thought himself sly, thought

 that he had caught Entreri in a lie ... as indeed he had.

    "Because I know that halflings never reveal the

 whereabouts of other halflings to one who is not a halfling,"

 Entreri answered, his demeanor changing suddenly to a

 lighthearted, laughing expression, something that had never

 come easily to the assassin. "I have no fight with Dondon, I

 assure you. We are old friends, and it has been far too long

 since we last spoke. Now, tell me where he is and take your

 payment."

    Again the halflings looked around, and then one, licking

 his lips and staring hungrily at the small pile of coins,

 pointed to a door at the back of the large room.

    Entreri replaced the dagger in its sheath and gave a

 gesture that seemed a salute as he moved from the table,

 walking confidently across the room and pushing through the

 door without even a knock.

    There before him reclined the fattest halfling he had

 ever seen, a creature wider than it was tall. He and the

 assassin locked stares, Entreri so intent on the fellow that

 he hardly noticed the scantily clad female halflings flanking

 him. It was indeed Dondon Tiggerwillies, Entreri realized to

 his horror. Despite all the years and all the scores of

 pounds, he knew the halfling, once the slipperiest and most

 competent confidence swindler in all of Calimport.

    "A knock is often appreciated," the halfling said, his

 voice raspy, as though he could hardly force the sounds from

 his thick neck. "Suppose that my friends and I were engaged

 in a more private action."

    Entreri didn't even try to figure out how that might be

 possible.

    "Well, what do you want, then?" Dondon asked, stuffing an

 enormous bite of pie into his mouth as soon as he finished

 speaking.

    Entreri closed the door and walked into the room, halving

 the distance between him and the halfling. "I want to speak

 with an old associate," he explained.

    Dondon stopped chewing and stared hard. Obviously stunned

 by recognition, he began violently choking on the pie and

 wound up spitting a substantial piece of it back onto his

 plate. His attendants did well to hide their disgust as they

 moved the plate aside.

    "I did not... I mean, Regis was no friend of mine. I mean

 . . ." Dondon stammered, a fairly common reaction from those

 faced with the spectre of Artemis Entreri.

    "Be at ease, Dondon," Entreri said firmly. "I came to

 speak with you, nothing more. I care not for Regis, nor for

 any role Dondon might have played in the demise of Pook those

 years ago. The streets are for the living, are they not, and

 not the dead?"

    "Yes, of course," Dondon replied, visibly trembling. He

 rolled forward a bit, trying to at least sit up, and only

 then did Entreri notice a chain trailing a thick anklet he

 wore about his left leg. Finally, the fat halfling gave up

 and just rolled back to his previous position. "An old

 wound," he said with a shrug.

    Entreri let the obviously ridiculous excuse slide past.

 He moved closer to the halfling and went down in a crouch,

 brushing aside Dondon's robes that he could better see the

 shackle. "I have only recently returned," he explained. "I

 hoped that Dondon might enlighten me concerning the current

 demeanor of the streets."

    "Rough and dangerous, of course," Dondon answered with a

 chuckle that became a phlegm-filled cough.

    "Who rules?" Entreri asked in a dead serious tone. "Which

 houses hold power, and what soldiers champion them?"

    "I wish that I could be of help to you, my friend,"

 Dondon said nervously. "Of course I do. I would never

 withhold information from you. Never that! But you see," he

 added, lifting up his shackled ankle, "they do not let me out

 much anymore."

    "How long have you been in here?"

    "Three years."

    Entreri stared incredulously and distastefully at the

 little wretch, then looked doubtfully at the relatively

 simple shackle, a lock that the old Dondon could have opened

 with a piece of hair.

    In response, Dondon held up his enormously thick hands,

 hands so pudgy that he couldn't even bring the higher parts

 of his fingers together. "I do not feel much with them

 anymore," he explained.

    A burning outrage welled inside Entreri. He felt as if he

 would simply explode into a murderous fit that would have him

 physically shaving the pounds from Dondon's fat hide with his

 jeweled dagger. Instead, he went at the lock, turning it

 roughly to scan for any possible traps, then reaching for a

 small pick.

    "Do not," came a high-pitched voice behind him. The

 assassin sensed the presence before he even heard the words.

 He spun about, rolling into a crouch, dagger in one hand, arm

 cocked to throw. Another female halfling, this one dressed in

 a fine tunic and breeches, with thick, curly brown hair and

 huge brown eyes, stood at the door, hands up and open, her

 posture completely unthreatening.

    "Oh, but that would be a bad thing for me and for you,"

 the female halfling said with a little grin.

    "Do not kill her," Dondon pleaded with Entreri, trying to

 grab for the assassin's arm, but missing far short of the

 mark and rolling back, gasping for breath.

    Entreri, ever alert, noticed then that both the female

 halflings attending Dondon had slipped hands into secret

 places, one to a pocket, the other to her generous waist-

 length hair, both no doubt reaching for weapons of some sort.

 He understood then that this newcomer was a leader among the

 group.

    "Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, at your service," she said with a

 graceful bow. "At your service, but not at your whim," she

 added with a smile.

    "Tiggerwillies?" Entreri echoed softly, glancing back at

 Dondon.

    "A cousin," the fat halfling explained with a shrug. "The

 most powerful halfling in all of Calimport and the newest

 proprietor of the Copper Ante."

    The assassin looked back to see the female halfling

 completely at ease, hands in her pockets.

    "You understand, of course, that I did not come in here

 alone, not to face a man of Artemis Entreri's reputation,"

 Dwahvel said.

    That brought a grin to Entreri's face as he imagined the

 many halflings concealed about the room. It struck him as a

 half-sized mock-up of another similar operation, that of

 Jarlaxle the dark elf mercenary in Menzoberranzan. On the

 occasions when he had to face the always well-protected

 Jarlaxle, though, Entreri had understood without doubt that

 if he made even the slightest wrong move, or if Jarlaxle or

 one of the drow guards ever perceived one of Entreri's

 movements as threatening, his life would have been at an

 abrupt end. He couldn't imagine now that Dwahvel

 Tiggerwillies, or any other halfling for that matter, could

 command such well-earned respect. Still, he hadn't come here

 for a fight, even if that old warrior part of him perceived

 Dwahvel's words as a challenge.

    "Of course," he replied simply. "Several with slings eye

 you right now," she went on. "And the bullets of those slings

 have been treated with an explosive formula. Quite painful

 and devastating." "How resourceful," the assassin said,

 trying to sound impressed.

    "That is how we survive," Dwahvel replied. "By being

 resourceful. By knowing everything about everything and

 preparing properly."

    In a single swift movement-one that would surely have

 gotten him killed in Jarlaxle's court-the assassin spun the

 dagger over and slipped it into its sheath, then stood up

 straight and dipped a low and respectful bow to Dwahvel.

    "Half the children of Calimport answer to Dwahvel,"

 Dondon explained. "And the other half are not children at

 all," he added with a wink, "and answer to Dwahvel, as well."

    "And of course, both halves have watched Artemis Entreri

 carefully since he walked back into the city," Dwahvel

 explained.

    "So glad that my reputation preceded me," Entreri said,

 sounding puffy indeed.

    "We did not know it was you until recently," Dwahvel

 replied, just to deflate the man, who of course, was not at

 all conceited.

    "And you discovered this by.... ?" Entreri prompted.

    That left Dwahvel a bit embarrassed, realizing that she

 had just been squeezed for a bit of information she had not

 intended to reveal. "I do not know why you would expect an

 answer," she said, somewhat perturbed. "Nor do I begin to see

 any reason I should help the one who dethroned Regis from the

 guild of the former Pasha Pook. Regis, was in a position to

 aid all the other halflings of Calimport."

    Entreri had no answer to that, so he offered nothing in

 reply.

    "Still, we should talk," Dwahvel went on, turning

 sidelong and motioning to the door.

    Entreri glanced back at Dondon.

    "Leave him to his pleasures," Dwahvel explained. "You

 would have him freed, yet he has little desire to leave, I

 assure you. Fine food and fine companionship."

    Entreri looked with disgust to the assorted pies and

 sweets, to the hardly moving Dondon, then to the two females.

 "He is not so demanding," one of them explained with a laugh.

    "Just a soft lap to rest his sleepy head," the other

 added with a titter that set them both to giggling.

    "I have all that I could ever desire," Dondon assured

 him.

    Entreri just shook his head and left with Dwahvel,

 following the little halfling to a more private-and

 undoubtedly better guarded-room deeper into the Copper Ante

 complex. Dwahvel took a seat in a low, plush chair and

 motioned for the assassin to take one opposite. Entreri was

 hardly comfortable in the half-sized piece, his legs straight

 out before him.

    "I do not entertain many who are not halflings," Dwahvel

 apologized. "We tend to be a secretive group."

    Entreri saw that she was looking for him to tell her how

 honored he was. But, of course, he wasn't, and so he said

 nothing, just keeping a tight expression, eyes boring

 accusingly into the female.

    "We hold him for his own good," Dwahvel said plainly.

    "Dondon was once among the most respected thieves in

 Calimport," Entreri countered.

    "Once," Dwahvel echoed, "but not so long after your

 departure, Dondon drew the anger of a particularly powerful

 pasha. The man was a friend of mine, so I pleaded for him to

 spare Dondon. Our compromise was that Dondon remain inside.

 Always inside. If he ever is seen walking the streets of

 Calimport again, by the pasha or any of the pasha's many

 contacts, then I am bound to turn him over for execution."

    "A better fate, by my estimation, than the slow death you

 give him chained in that room."

    Dwahvel laughed aloud at that proclamation. "Then you do

 not understand Dondon," she said. "Men more holy than I have

 long identified the seven sins deadly to the soul, and while

 Dondon has little of the primary three, for he is neither

 proud nor envious nor wrathful, he is possessed of an excess

 of the last four-sloth, avarice, gluttony, and lust. He and I

 made a deal, a deal to save his life. I promised to give him,

 without judgment, all that he desired in exchange for his

 promise to remain within my doors."

    "Then why the chains about his ankle?" Entreri asked.

    "Because Dondon is drunk more often than sober," Dwahvel

 explained. "Likely he would cause trouble within my

 establishment, or perhaps he would stagger onto the street.

 It is all for his own protection."

    Entreri wanted to refute that, for he had never seen a

 more pitiful sight than Dondon and would personally prefer a

 tortured death to that grotesque lifestyle. But when he

 thought about Dondon more carefully, when he remembered the

 halfling's personal style those years ago, a style that often

 included sweet foods and many ladies, he recognized that

 Dondon's failings now were the halfling's own and nothing

 forced upon him by a caring Dwahvel.

    "If he remains inside the Copper Ante, no one will bother

 him," Dwahvel said after giving Entreri the moment to think

 it over. "No contract, no assassin. Though, of course, this

 is only on the five-year-old word of a pasha. So you can

 understand why my fellows were a bit nervous when the likes

 of Artemis Entreri walked into the Copper Ante inquiring

 about Dondon."

    Entreri eyed her skeptically.

    "They were not sure it was you at first," Dwahvel

 explained. "Yet we have known that you were back in town for

 a couple of days now. Word is fairly common on the streets,

 though, as you can well imagine, it is more rumor than truth.

 Some say that you have returned to displace Quentin Bodeau

 and regain control of Pook's house. Others hint that you have

 come for greater reasons, hired by the Lords of Waterdeep

 themselves to assassinate several high-ranking leaders of

 Calimshan."

    Entreri's expression summed up his incredulous response

 to that preposterous notion.

    Dwahvel shrugged. "Such are the trappings of reputation,"

 she said. "Many people are paying good money for any whisper,

 however ridiculous, that might help them solve the riddle of

 why Artemis Entreri has returned to Calimport. You make them

 nervous, assassin. Take that as the highest compliment.

    "But also as a warning," Dwahvel went on. "When guilds

 fear someone or something, they often take steps to erase

 that fear. Several have been asking very pointed questions

 about your whereabouts and movements, and you understand this

 business well enough to realize that to be the mark of the

 hunting assassin."

    Entreri put his elbow on the arm of the small chair and

 plopped his chin in his hand, considering the halfling

 carefully. Rarely had anyone spoken so bluntly and boldly to

 Artemis Entreri, and in the few minutes they had been sitting

 together, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies had earned more respect from

 Entreri than most would gather in a lifetime of

 conversations.

    "I can find more detailed information for you," Dwahvel

 said slyly. "I have larger ears than a Sossalan mammoth and

 more eyes than a room of beholders, so it is said. And so it

 is true."

    Entreri put a hand to his belt and jiggled his purse.

 "You overestimate the size of my treasury," he said.

    "Look around you," Dwahvel retorted. "What need have I

 for more gold, from Silverymoon or anywhere else?"

    Her reference to the Silverymoon coinage came as a subtle

 hint to Entreri that she knew of what she was speaking.

    "Call it a favor between friends," Dwahvel explained,

 hardly a surprise to the assassin who had made his life

 exchanging such favors. "One that you might perhaps repay me

 one day."

    Entreri kept his face expressionless as he thought it

 over. Such a cheap way to garner information. Entreri highly

 doubted that the halfling would ever require his particular

 services, for halflings simply didn't solve their problems

 that way. And if Dwahvel did call upon him, maybe he would

 comply, or maybe not. Entreri hardly feared that Dwahvel

 would send her three-foot-tall thugs after him. No, all that

 Dwahvel wanted, should things sort out in his favor, was the

 bragging right that Artemis Entreri owed her a favor, a claim

 that would drain the blood from the faces of the majority of

 Calimport's street folk.

    The question for Entreri now was, did he really care if

 he ever got the information Dwahvel offered? He thought it

 over for another minute, then nodded his accord. Dwahvel

 brightened immediately.

    "Come back tomorrow night, then," she said. "I will have

 something to tell you."

    Outside the Copper Ante, Artemis Entreri spent a long

 while thinking about Dondon, for he found that every time he

 conjured an image of the fat halfling stuffing pie into his

 face he was filled with rage. Not disgust, but rage. As he

 examined those feelings, he came to recognize that Dondon

 Tiggerwillies had been about as close to a friend as Artemis

 Entreri had ever known. Pasha Basadoni had been his mentor,

 Pasha Pook his primary employer, but Dondon and Entreri had

 related in a different manner. They acted in each other's

 benefit without set prices, exchanging information without

 taking count. It had been a mutually beneficial relationship.

 Seeing Dondon now, purely hedonistic, having given up on any

 meaning in life, it seemed to the assassin that the halfling

 had committed a form of living suicide.

    Entreri did not possess enough compassion for that to

 explain the anger he felt, though, and when he admitted that

 to himself he came to understand that the sight of Dondon

 repelled him so much because, given his own mental state

 lately, it could well be him. Not chained by the ankle in the

 company of women and food, of course, but in effect, Dondon

 had surrendered, and so had Entreri.

    Perhaps it was time to take down the white flag.

    Dondon had been his friend in a manner, and there had

 been one other similarly entwined. Now it was time to go and

 see LaValle.

    

                            Chapter 4

                           THE SUMMONS

  

    Drizzt couldn't get down to the ledge where Guenhwyvar

 had landed, so he used the onyx figurine to dismiss the cat.

 She faded back to the Astral plane, her home, where her

 wounds would better heal. He saw that Regis and his

 unexpected giant ally had moved out of sight, and that

 Wulfgar and Catti-brie were moving to join Bruenor down at

 the lower ledge to the south, where the last of the enemy

 giants had fallen. The dark elf began picking his way to join

 them. At first, he thought he might have to backtrack all the

 way around to his initial position with Wulfgar, but using

 his incredible agility and the strength of fingers trained

 for decades in the maneuvering skills of sword play, he

 somehow found enough ledges, cracks, and simple angled

 surfaces to get down beside his friends.

    By the time he got there, all three had entered the cave

 at the back of the shelf.

    "Damned things might've kept a bit more treasure if

 they're meanin' to put up such a fight," he heard Bruenor

 complaining.

    "Perhaps that's why they were scouting out the road,"

 Catti-brie replied. "Might it have been better for

    ye if we went at them on our way back from Cadderly's

 place? Perhaps then we'd've found more treasure to yer

 liking. And maybe a few merchant skulls to go along with it."

    "Bah!" the dwarf snorted, drawing a wide smile from

 Drizzt. Few in all the Realms needed treasure less than

 Bruenor Battlehammer, Eighth King of Mithral Hall (despite

 his chosen absence from the place) and also leader of a

 lucrative mining colony in Icewind Dale. But that wasn't the

 point of Bruenor's ire, Drizzt understood, and he smiled all

 the wider as Bruenor confirmed his suspicions.

    "What kind o' wicked god'd put ye against such powerful

 foes and not even reward ye with a bit o' gold?" the dwarf

 grumbled.

    "We did find some gold," Catti-brie reminded him. Drizzt,

 entering the cave, noted that she held a fairly substantial

 sack that bulged with coins.

    Bruenor flashed the drow a disgusted look. "Copper

 mostly," he grumbled. "Three gold coins, a pair o' silver,

 and nothing more but stinkin' copper!"

    "But the road is safe," Drizzt said. He looked to Wulfgar

 as he spoke, but the big man would not match his stare. The

 drow tried hard not to pass any judgment over his tormented

 friend. Wulfgar should have led Drizzt's charge to the shelf.

 Never before had he so failed Drizzt in their tandem combat.

 But the drow knew that the barbarian's hesitance came not

 from any desire to see Drizzt injured nor, certainly, any

 cowardice. Wulfgar spun in emotional turmoil, the depths of

 which Drizzt Do'Urden had never before seen. He had known of

 these problems before coaxing the barbarian out for this

 hunt, so he could not rightly place any blame now.

    Nor did he want to. He only hoped that the fight itself,

 after Wulfgar had become involved, had helped

    the man to rid himself of some of those inner demons, had

 run the horse, as Montolio would have called it, just a bit.

    "And what about yerself?" Bruenor roared, bouncing over

 to stand before Drizzt. "What're ye about, going off on yer

 own without a word to the rest of us? Ye thinking all the

 fun's for yerself, elf? Ye thinking that me and me girl can't

 be helpin' ye?"

    "I did not want to trouble you with so minor a battle,"

 Drizzt calmly replied, painting a disarming smile on his dark

 face. "I knew that we would be in the mountains, outside and

 not under them, in terrain not suited for the likes of a

 short-limbed dwarf."

    Bruenor wanted to hit him. Drizzt could see that in the

 way the dwarf was trembling. "Bah!" he roared instead,

 throwing up his hands and walking back for the exit to the

 small cave. "Ye're always doin' that, ye stinkin' elf. Always

 going about on yer own and taking all the fun. But we'll find

 more on the road, don't ye doubt! And ye better be hopin'

 that ye see it afore me, or I'll cut 'em all down afore ye

 ever get them sissy blades outta their sheaths or that

 stinkin' cat outta that statue.

    "Unless they're too much for us. ..." he continued, his

 voice trailing away as he moved out of the cave. "Then I just

 might let ye have 'em all to yerself, ye stinkin' elf!"

    Wulfgar, without a word and without a look at Drizzt,

 moved out next, leaving the drow and Catti-brie alone. Drizzt

 was chuckling now as Bruenor continued to grumble, but when

 he looked at Catti-brie, he saw that she was truly not

 amused, her feelings obviously hurt.

    "I'm thinking that a poor excuse," she remarked.

    "I wanted to bring Wulfgar out alone," Drizzt explained.

 "To bring him back to a different place and time, before all

 the trouble."

    "And ye're not thinkin' that me dad, or meself, might

 want to be helping with that?" Catti-brie asked.

    "I wanted no one here that Wulfgar might fear needed

 protecting," Drizzt explained, and Catti-brie slumped back,

 her jaw dropping open.

    "I speak only the truth, and you see it clearly," Drizzt

 went on. "You remember how Wulfgar acted toward you before

 the fight with the yochlol. He was protective to the point of

 becoming a detriment to any battle cause. How could I rightly

 ask you to join us out here now, when that previous scenario

 might have repeated, leaving Wulfgar, perhaps, in an even

 worse emotional place than when we set out? That is why I did

 not ask Bruenor or Regis, either. Wulfgar, Guenhwyvar, and I

 would fight the giants, as we did that time so long ago in

 Icewind Dale. And maybe, just maybe, he would remember things

 the way they had been before his unwelcome tenure with

 Errtu."

    Catti-brie's expression softened, and she bit her lower

 lip as she nodded her agreement. "And did it work?" she

 asked. "Suren the fight went well, and Wulfgar fought well

 and honestly."

    Drizzt's gaze drifted out the exit. "He made a mistake,"

 the drow admitted. "Though surely he compensated as the

 battle progressed. It is my hope that Wulfgar will forgive

 himself his initial hesitance and focus on the actual fight

 where he performed wonderfully."

    "Hesitance?" Catti-brie asked skeptically.

    "When we first began the battle," Drizzt started to

 explain, but he waved his hand dismissively as if it did not

 really matter. "It has been many years since we have fought

 together. It was an excusable miscue, nothing more." In

 truth, Drizzt had a hard time dismissing the fact that

 Wulfgar's hesitance had almost cost him and Guenhwyvar

 dearly.

    "Ye're in a generous mood," the ever-perceptive Catti-

 brie remarked.

    "It is my hope that Wulfgar will remember who he is and

 who his friends truly are," the drow ranger replied.

    "Yer hope," Catti-brie echoed. "But is it your

 expectation?"

    Drizzt continued to stare out the exit. He could only

 shrug.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    The four were out of the ravine and back on the trail

 shortly after, and Bruenor's grumbling about Drizzt turned

 into complaining about Regis. "Where in the Nine Hells is

 Rumblebelly?" the dwarf bellowed. "And how in the Nine Hells

 did he ever get a giant to throw rocks for him?"

    Even as he spoke, they felt the vibrations of heavy,

 heavy footfalls beneath their feet and heard a silly song

 sung in unison. There was a happy halfling voice, Regis, and

 a second voice that rumbled like the thunder of a rockslide.

 A moment later, Regis came around a bend in the northern

 trail, riding on the giant's shoulder, the two of them

 singing and laughing with every step.

    "Hello," Regis said happily when he steered the giant to

 join his friends. He noted that Drizzt had his hands on his

 scimitars, though they were sheathed (and that meant little

 for the lightning-fast drow), Bruenor clutched tightly to his

 axe, Catti-brie to her bow, and Wulfgar, holding Aegis-fang,

 seemed as if he was about to explode into murderous action.

    "This is Junger," Regis explained. "He was not with the

 other band-he says he doesn't even know them. And he is a

 smart one."

    Junger put a hand up to secure Regis's seat, then bowed

 low before the stunned group.

    "In fact, Junger does not even go down to the road, does

 not go out of the mountains at all," Regis explained. "Says

 he has no interest in the affairs of dwarves or men."

    "He telled ye that, did he?" Bruenor asked doubtfully.

    Regis nodded, his smile wide. "And I believe him," he

 said, waggling the ruby pendant, whose magical hypnotizing

 properties were well known to the friends.

    "That don't change a thing," Bruenor said with a growl,

 looking to Drizzt as if expecting the ranger to start the

 fight. A giant was a giant, after all, to the dwarf's way of

 thinking, and any giant looked much better lying down with an

 axe firmly embedded in its skull.

    "Junger is no killer," Regis said firmly.

    "Only goblins," the huge giant said with a smile. "And

 hill giants. And orcs, of course, for who could abide the

 ugly things?"

    His sophisticated dialect and his choice of enemies had

 the dwarf staring at him wide-eyed. "And yeti," Bruenor said.

 "Don't ye be forgettin' yeti."

    "Oh, not yeti," Junger replied. "I do not kill yeti."

    The scowl returned to Bruenor's face.

    "Why, one cannot even eat the smelly things," Junger

 explained. "I do not kill them, I domesticate them."

    "Ye what?" Bruenor demanded.

    "Domesticate them," Junger explained. "Like a dog or a

 horse. Oh, but I've quite a selection of yeti workers at my

 cave back in the mountains."

    Bruenor turned an incredulous expression on Drizzt, but

 the ranger, as much at a loss as the dwarf, only shrugged.

    "We've lost too much time already," Catti-brie remarked.

 "Camlaine and the others'll be halfway out o' the dale afore

 we catch them. Be rid o' yer friend, Regis, and let us get to

 the trail."

    Regis was shaking his head before she ever finished.

 "Junger does not usually leave the mountains," he explained.

 "But he will for me."

    "Then I'll not have to carry you anymore," Wulfgar

 grumbled, walking away. "Good enough for that."

    "Ye're not having to carry him anyway," Bruenor replied,

 then looked back to Regis. "I'm thinking ye can do yer own

 walking. Ye don't need a giant to act as a horse."

    "More than that," Regis said, beaming. "A bodyguard."

    The dwarf and Catti-brie both groaned; Drizzt only

 chuckled and shook his head.

    "In every fight, I spend more time trying to keep out of

 the way," Regis explained. "Never am I any real help. But

 with Junger-"

    "Ye'll still be trying to keep outta the way," Bruenor

 interrupted.

    "If Junger is to fight for you, then he is no more than

 any of the rest of us," Drizzt added. "Are we, then, merely

 bodyguards of Regis?"

    "No, of course not," the halfling replied. "But-"

    "Be rid of him," Catti-brie said. "Wouldn't we look the

 fine band of friendly travelers walking into Luskan beside a

 mountain giant?"

    "We'll walk in with a drow," Regis answered before he

 could think about it, then blushed a deep shade of red.

    Again, Drizzt only chuckled and shook his head.

    "Put him down," Bruenor said to Junger. "I think he's

 needin' a talk."

    "You mustn't hurt my friend Regis," Junger replied. "That

 I simply cannot allow."

    Bruenor snorted. "Put 'im down."

    With a look to Regis, who held a stubborn pose for a few

 moments longer, Junger complied. He set the halfling gently

 on the ground before Bruenor, who reached as if to grab Regis

 by the ear, but then glanced up, up, up at Junger and thought

 the better of it. "Ye're not thinkin', Rumblebelly," the

 dwarf said quietly, leading Regis away. "What happens if the

 big damned thing finds its way outta yer ruby spell? He'll

 squish ye flat afore any o' us can stop him, and I'm not

 thinking I'd try to stop him if I could, since ye'd be

 deserving the flattening!"

    Regis started to argue, but he remembered the first

 moments of his encounter with Junger, when the huge giant had

 proclaimed that he liked his rodents smashed. The little

 halfling couldn't deny the fact that a single step from

 Junger would indeed mash him, and the hold of the ruby

 pendant was ever tentative. He turned and walked back from

 Bruenor and bade Junger to go back to his home in the deep

 mountains.

    The giant smiled-and shook his head. "I hear it," he said

 cryptically. "So I shall stay."

    "Hear what?" Regis and Bruenor asked together.

    "Just a call," Junger assured them. "It tells me that I

 should go along with you to serve Regis and protect him."

    "Ye hit him good with that thing, didn't ye now?" Bruenor

 whispered at the halfling.

    "I need no protecting," Regis said firmly to the giant.

 "Though we all thank you for your help in the fight. You can

 go back to your home."

    Again Junger shook his head. "Better that I go with you."

    Bruenor glowered at Regis, and the halfling had no

 explanation. As far as he could tell, Junger was still under

 the spell of the pendant-the fact that Regis was still alive

 seemed evidence of that-yet the behemoth was clearly

 disobeying him.

    "Perhaps you can come along," Drizzt said to the surprise

 of them all. "Yes, but if you mean to join us, then perhaps

 your pet tundra yetis might prove invaluable. How long will

 it take you to retrieve them?"

    "Three days at the most," Junger replied.

    "Well, go then, and be quick about it," Regis said,

 hopping up and down and wriggling the ruby pendant at the end

 of its chain.

    That seemed to satisfy the giant. It bowed low then

 bounded away.

    "We should've killed the thing here and now," Bruenor

 said. "Now it'll come back in three days and find us long

 gone, then it'll likely take its damned smelly yetis and go

 down hunting on the road!"

    "No, he told me he never goes out of the mountains,"

 Regis reasoned.

    "Enough of this foolishness," Catti-brie demanded. "The

 thing's gone, and so should we all be." None offered an

 argument to that, so they set off at once, Drizzt purposely

 falling into line beside Regis.

    "Was it all the call of the ruby pendant?" the ranger

 asked.

    "Junger told me that he was farther from home than he had

 been in a long, long time," Regis admitted. "He said he heard

 a call on the wind and went to answer it. I guess he thought

 I was the caller."

    Drizzt accepted that explanation. If Junger continued to

 fall for the simple ruse, they would be around the edge of

 the Spine of the World, rushing fast along a better road,

 before the behemoth ever returned to this spot.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Indeed Junger was running fast in the direction of his

 relatively lavish mountain home, and it struck the giant as

 curious, for just a moment, that he had ever left the place.

 In his younger days, Junger had been a wanderer, living meal

 to meal on whatever prey he could find. He snickered now when

 he considered all that he had told the foolish little

 halfling, for Junger had indeed once feasted on the meat of

 humans, and even on a halfling once. The truth was, he

 shunned such meals now as much because he didn't like the

 taste as because he thought it better not to make such

 powerful enemies as humans. Wizards in particular scared him.

 Of course, to find human or halfling meat, Junger had to

 leave his mountain home, and that he never liked to do.

    He wouldn't have come out at all this time had not a call

 on the wind, something he still did not quite understand,

 compelled him.

    Yes, Junger had all he wanted at his home: plenty of

 food, obedient servants, and comfortable furs. He had no

 desire to ever leave the place.

    But he had, and he understood that he would again, and

 though that seemed an incongruous thought to the not-stupid

 giant, it was one that he simply couldn't pause to consider.

 Not now, not with the constant buzzing in his ear.

    He would get the yetis, he knew, and then return,

 following the instructions of the call on the wind.

    The call of Crenshinibon.

    

                            Chapter 5

                      STIRRING THE STREETS

  

    LaValle walked to his private suite in the guild house

 late that morning after meeting with Quentin Bodeau and

 Chalsee Anguaine. Dog Perry was supposed to attend, and he

 was the one LaValle truly wanted to see, but Dog had sent

 word that he would not be coming, that he was out on the

 streets learning more about the dangerous Entreri.

    In truth, the meeting proved nothing more than a

 gathering to calm the nerves of Quentin Bodeau. The

 guildmaster wanted reassurances that Entreri wouldn't merely

 show up and murder him. Chalsee Anguaine, in the manner of a

 cocky young man, promised to defend Quentin with his life.

 This LaValle knew to be an obvious lie. LaValle argued that

 Entreri wouldn't work that way, that he would not come in and

 kill Quentin without first learning all of Quentin's ties and

 associates and how powerfully the man held the guild.

    "Entreri is never reckless," LaValle had explained. "And

 the scenario you fear would indeed be reckless."

    By the time LaValle had turned to leave, Bodeau felt

 better and expressed his sentiment that he would feel better

 still if Dog Perry, or someone else, merely killed the

 dangerous man. It would never be that easy, LaValle knew, but

 he had kept the thought silent.

    As soon as he entered his rooms, a suite of four with a

 large greeting room, a private study to the right, bedroom

 directly behind, and an alchemy lab and library to the left,

 the wizard felt as if something was amiss. He suspected Dog

 Perry to be the source of the trouble-the man did not trust

 him and had even privately, though surely subtly, accused him

 of the intent to side with Entreri should it come to blows.

    Had the man come in here when he knew LaValle to be at

 the meeting with Quentin? Was he still here, hiding, crouched

 with weapon in hand?

    The wizard looked back at the door and saw no signs that

 the lock-and the door was always locked-had been tripped, or

 that his traps had been defeated. There was one other way

 into the place, an outside window, but LaValle had placed so

 many glyphs and wards upon it, scattering them in several

 different places, that anyone crawling through would have

 been shocked with lightning, burned three different times,

 and frozen solid on the sill. Even if an intruder managed to

 survive the magical barrage, the explosions would have been

 heard throughout this entire level of the guild house,

 bringing soldiers by the score.

    Reassured by simple logic and by a defensive spell he

 placed upon his body to make his skin resistant to any blows,

 LaValle started for his private study.

    The door opened before he reached it, Artemis Entreri

 standing calmly within.

    LaValle did well to stay on his feet, for his knees

 nearly buckled with weakness.

    "You knew that I had returned," Entreri said easily,

 stepping forward and leaning against the jamb. "Did you not

 expect that I would pay a visit to an old friend?"

    The wizard composed himself and shook his head, looking

 back at the door. "Door or window?" he asked.

    "Door, of course," Entreri replied. "I know how well you

 protect your windows."

    "The door, as well," LaValle said dryly, for obviously he

 hadn't protected it well enough.

    Entreri shrugged. "You still use that lock and trap

 combination you had upon your previous quarters," he

 explained, holding up a key. "I suspected as much, since I

 heard that you were overjoyed when you discovered that the

 items had survived when the dwarf knocked the door in on your

 head."

    "How did you get a-" LaValle started to ask.

    "I got you the lock, remember?" Entreri answered.

    "But the guild house is well defended by no soldiers

 known by Artemis Entreri," the wizard argued.

    "The guild house has its secret leaks," the assassin

 quietly replied.

    "But my door," LaValle went on. "There are . . . were

 other traps."

    Entreri put on a bored expression, and LaValle got the

 point.

    "Very well," the wizard said, moving past Entreri into

 the study and motioning for the assassin to follow. "I can

 have a fine meal delivered, if you so desire."

    Entreri took a seat opposite LaValle and shook his head.

 "I came not for food, merely for information," he explained.

 "They know I am in Calimport."

    "Many guilds know," LaValle confirmed with a nod. "And

 yes, I did know. I saw you through my crystal ball as, I am

 sure, have many of the wizards of the other pashas. You have

 not exactly been traveling from shadow to shadow."

    "Should I be?" Entreri asked. "I came in with no enemies,

 as far as I know, and with no intent to make any."

    LaValle laughed at the absurd notion. "No enemies?" he

 asked. "Ever have you made enemies. The creation of enemies

 is the obvious side product of your dark profession." His

 chuckle died fast when he looked carefully at the not-amused

 assassin, the wizard suddenly realizing that he was mocking

 perhaps the most dangerous man in all the world.

    "Why did you scry me?" Entreri asked.

    LaValle shrugged and held up his hands as if he didn't

 understand the question. "That is my job in the guild," he

 answered.

    "So you informed the guildmaster of my return?"

    "Pasha Quentin Bodeau was with me when your image came

 into the crystal ball," LaValle admitted.

    Entreri merely nodded, and LaValle shifted uncomfortably.

    "I did not know it would be you, of course," the wizard

 explained. "If I had known, I would have contacted you

 privately before informing Bodeau to learn your intent and

 your wishes."

    "You are a loyal one," Entreri said dryly, and the irony

 was not lost on LaValle.

    "I make no pretensions or promises," the wizard replied.

 "Those who know me understand that I do little to upset the

 balance of power about me and serve whoever has weighted his

 side of the scale the most."

    "A pragmatic survivor," Entreri said. "Yet did you not

 just tell me that you would have informed me had you known?

 You do make a promise, wizard, a promise to serve. And yet,

 would you not be breaking that promise to Quentin Bodeau by

 warning me? Perhaps I do not know you as well as I had

 thought. Perhaps your loyalty cannot be trusted."

    "I make a willing exception for you," LaValle stammered,

 trying to find a way out of the logic trap. He knew beyond a

 doubt that Entreri would try to kill him if the assassin

 believed that he could not be trusted.

    And he knew beyond a doubt that if Entreri tried to kill

 him, he would be dead.

    "Your mere presence means that whichever side you serve

 has weighted the scale in their favor," he explained. "Thus,

 I would never willingly go against you."

    Entreri didn't respond other than to stare hard at the

 man, making LaValle shift uncomfortably more than once.

 Entreri, having little time for such games and with no real

 intention of harming LaValle, broke the tension, though, and

 quickly. "Tell me of the guild in its present incarnation,"

 he said. "Tell me of Bodeau and his lieutenants and how

 extensive his street network has become."

    "Quentin Bodeau is a decent man," LaValle readily

 complied. "He does not kill unless forced into such a

 position and steals only from those who can afford the loss.

 But many under him, and many other guilds, perceive this

 compassion as weakness, and thus the guild has suffered under

 his reign. We are not as extensive as we were when Pook ruled

 or when you took the leadership from the halfling Regis." He

 went on to detail the guild's area of influence, and the

 assassin was indeed surprised at how much Pook's grand old

 guild had frayed at the edges. Streets that had once been

 well within Pook's domain were far out of reach now, for

 those avenues considered borderlands between various

 operations were much closer to the guild house.

    Entreri hardly cared for the prosperity or weakness of

 Bodeau's operation. This was a survival call and nothing

 more. He was only trying to get a feeling for the current

 layout of Calimport's underbelly so that he might not

 inadvertently bring the wrath of any particular guild down

 upon him.

    LaValle went on to tell of the lieutenants, speaking

 highly of the potential of young Chalsee and warning Entreri

 in a deadly serious tone, but one that hardly seemed to stir

 the assassin, of Dog Perry.

    "Watch him closely," LaValle said again, noting the

 assassin's almost bored expression. "Dog Perry was beside me

 when we scried you, and he was far from happy to see Artemis

 Entreri returned to Calimport. Your mere presence poses a

 threat to him, for he commands a fairly high price as an

 assassin, and not just for Quentin Bodeau." Still garnering

 no obvious response, LaValle pressed even harder. "He wants

 to be the next Artemis Entreri," the wizard said bluntly.

    That brought a chuckle from the assassin, not one of

 doubt concerning Dog Perry's abilities to fulfill his dream

 or one of any flattery. Entreri was amused by the fact that

 this Dog Perry hardly understood that which he sought, for if

 he did, he would turn his desires elsewhere.

    "He may see your return as more than an inconvenience,"

 LaValle warned. "Perhaps as a threat, or even worse ... as an

 opportunity."

    "You do not like him," Entreri reasoned.

    "He is a killer without discipline and thus hardly

 predictable," the wizard replied. "A blind man's flying

 arrow. If I knew for certain that he was coming after me, I

 would hardly fear him. It is the often irrational actions of

 the man that keep us all a bit worried."

    "I hold no aspirations for Bodeau's position," Entreri

 assured the wizard after a long moment of silence. "Nor do I

 have any intention of impaling myself on the dagger of Dog

 Perry. Thus you will show no disloyalty to Bodeau by keeping

 me informed, wizard, and I expect at least that much from

 you."

    "If Dog Perry comes after you, you will be told," LaValle

 promised, and Entreri believed him. Dog Perry was an upstart,

 a young hopeful who desired to strengthen his reputation with

 a single thrust of his dagger. But LaValle understood the

 truth of Entreri, the assassin knew, and while the wizard

 might become nervous indeed if he invoked the wrath of Dog

 Perry, he would find himself truly terrified if ever he

 learned that Artemis Entreri wanted him dead.

    Entreri sat a moment longer, considering the paradox of

 his reputation. Because of his years of work, many might seek

 to kill him, but, for the same reasons, many others would

 fear to go against him and indeed would work for him.

    Of course, if Dog Perry did manage to kill him, then

 LaValle's loyalty to Entreri would come to an abrupt end,

 transferred immediately to the new king assassin.

    To Artemis Entreri it all seemed so perfectly useless.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "You do not see the possibilities here," Dog Perry

 scolded, working hard to keep his voice calm, though in truth

 he wanted to throttle the nervous young man.

    "Have you heard the stories?" Chalsee Anguaine retorted.

 "He has killed everything from guildmasters to battle mages.

 Everyone he has decided to kill is dead."

    Dog Perry spat in disgust. "That was a younger man," he

 replied. "A man revered by many guilds, including the

 Basadoni House. A man of connections and protection, who had

 many powerful allies to assist in his assassinations. Now he

 is alone and vulnerable, and no longer possessed of the

 quickness of youth."

    "We should bide our time and learn more about him and

 discover why he has returned," Chalsee reasoned.

    "The longer we wait, the more Entreri will rebuild his

 web," Dog Perry argued without hesitation. "A wizard, a

 guildmaster, spies on the street. No, if we wait then we

 cannot go against him without considering the possibility

 that our actions will begin a guild war. You understand the

 truth of Bodeau, of course, and recognize that under his

 leadership we would not survive such a war."

    "You remain his principal assassin," Chalsee argued.

    Dog Perry chuckled at the thought. "I follow

 opportunities," he corrected. "And the opportunity I see

 before me now is one that cannot be ignored. If I-if we-kill

 Artemis Entreri, we will command his previous position."

    "Guildless?"

    "Guildless," Dog Perry answered honestly. "Or better

 described as tied to many guilds. A sword for the highest

 bidder."

    "Quentin Bodeau would not accept such a thing," Chalsee

 said. "He will lose two lieutenants, thus weakening his

 guild."

    "Quentin Bodeau will understand that because his

 lieutenants now hire to more powerful guilds, his own

 position will be better secured," Dog Perry replied.

    Chalsee considered the optimistic reasoning for a moment,

 then shook his head doubtfully. "Bodeau would then be

 vulnerable, perhaps fearing that his own lieutenants might

 strike against him at the request of another guildmaster."

    "So be it," Dog Perry said coldly. "You should be very

 careful how tightly you tie your future to the likes of

 Bodeau. The guild erodes under his command, and eventually

 another guild will absorb us. Those willing to let the

 strongest conquer may find a new home. Those tied by foolish

 loyalty to the loser will have their bodies picked clean by

 beggars in the gutter."

    Chalsee looked away, not enjoying this conversation in

 the least. Until the previous day, until they had learned

 that Artemis Entreri had returned, he had thought his life

 and career fairly secure. He was rising through the ranks of

 a reasonably strong guild. Now Dog Perry seemed intent on

 upping the stakes, on reaching for a higher level. While

 Chalsee could understand the allure, he wasn't certain of the

 true potential. If they succeeded against Entreri, he did not

 doubt Dog Perry's prediction, but the mere thought of going

 after Artemis Entreri...

    Chalsee had been but a boy when Entreri had last left

 Calimport, had been connected to no guilds and knew none of

 the many Entreri had slain. By the time Chalsee had joined

 the underworld circuit, others had claimed the position of

 primary assassins in Calimport: Marcus the Knife of Pasha

 Wroning's Guild; the independent Clarissa and her cohorts who

 ran the brothels serving the nobility of the region- yes,

 Clarissa's enemies seemed to simply disappear. Then there was

 Kadran Gordeon of the Basadoni Guild, and perhaps most deadly

 of all, Slay Targon, the battle mage. None of them had come

 near to erasing the reputation of Artemis Entreri, even

 though the end of Entreri's previous Calimport career had

 been marred by the downfall of the guildmaster he was

 supposedly serving and by his reputed inability to defeat a

 certain nemesis, a drow elf, no less.

    And now Dog Perry wanted to catapult himself to the ranks

 of those four notorious assassins with a single kill, and in

 truth, the plan sounded plausible to Chalsee.

    Except, of course, for the little matter of actually

 killing Entreri.

    "The decision is made," Dog Perry said, seemingly sensing

 Chalsee's private thoughts. "I am going against him ... with

 or without your assistance."

    The implicit threat behind those words was not lost on

 Chalsee. If Dog Perry meant to have any chance against

 Entreri, there could be no neutral parties. When he

 proclaimed his intentions to Chalsee, he was bluntly

 inferring that Chalsee had to either stand with him or

 against him, to stand in his court or in Entreri's.

 Considering that Chalsee didn't even know Entreri and feared

 the man as much as an ally as an enemy, it didn't seem much

 of a choice.

    The two began their planning immediately. Dog Perry

 insisted that Artemis Entreri would be dead within two days.

    "The man is no enemy," LaValle assured Quentin later that

 same night as the two walked the corridors leading to the

 guildmaster's private dining hall. "His return to Calimport

 was not predicated by any desire to reclaim the guild."

    "How can you know?" the obviously nervous leader asked.

 "How can anyone know the mind-set of that one? Ever has he

 survived through unpredictability."

    "There you are wrong," LaValle replied. "Entreri has ever

 been predictable because he makes no pretense of that which

 he desires. I have spoken to him."

    The admission had Quentin Bodeau spinning about to face

 the wizard directly. "When?" he stuttered. "Where? You have

 not left the guild house all this day."

    LaValle smiled and tilted his head as he regarded the

 man-the man who had just foolishly admitted that he was

 monitoring LaValle's movements. How frightened Quentin must

 be to go to such lengths. Still, the wizard knew, Quentin

 realized that LaValle and Entreri were old companions and

 that if Entreri did desire a return to power in the guild, he

 would likely enlist LaValle.

    "You have no reason not to trust me," LaValle said

 calmly. "If Entreri wanted the guild back, I would tell you

 forthwith, that you might surrender leadership and still

 retain some high-ranking position."

    Quentin Bodeau's gray eyes flared dangerously.

 "Surrender?" he echoed.

    "If I led a guild and heard that Artemis Entreri desired

 my position, I would surely do that!" LaValle said with a

 laugh that somewhat dispelled the tension. "But have no such

 fears. Entreri is back in Calimport, 'tis true, but he is no

 enemy to you."

    "Who can tell?" Bodeau replied, starting back down the

 corridor. LaValle fell into step beside him. "But understand

 that you are to have no further contacts with the man."

    "That hardly seems prudent. Are we not better off

 understanding his movements?"

    "No further contacts," Quentin Bodeau said more

 forcefully, grabbing LaValle by the shoulder and turning him

 so he could look directly into the wizard's eyes. "None, and

 that is not my choice."

    "You miss an opportunity, I fear," LaValle started to

 argue. "Entreri is a friend, a very valuable-"

    "None!" Quentin insisted, coming to an abrupt halt to

 accentuate his point. "Believe me when I say that it would

 please me greatly to hire the assassin to take care of a few

 troublemakers among the sewer wererat guild. I have heard

 that Entreri particularly dislikes the distasteful creatures

 and that they hold little love for him."

    LaValle smiled at the memory. Pasha Pook had been heavily

 connected with a nasty wererat leader by the name of

 Rassiter. After Pook's fall, Rassiter had tried to enlist

 Entreri into a mutually beneficial alliance. Unfortunately

 for Rassiter, a very angry Entreri hadn't seen things quite

 that way.

    "But we cannot enlist him," Quentin Bodeau went on. "Nor

 are we ... are you, to have any further contact with him.

 These orders have come down to me from the Basadoni Guild,

 the Rakers' Guild, and Pasha Wroning himself."

    LaValle paused, caught off guard by the stunning news.

 Bodeau had just listed the three most powerful guilds of

 Calimport's streets.

    Quentin paused at the dining room door, knowing that

 there were attendants inside, wanting to get this settled

 privately with the wizard. "They have declared Entreri an

 untouchable," he went on, meaning that no guildmaster, at the

 risk of street war, was to even speak with the man, let alone

 have any professional dealings with him.

    LaValle nodded, understanding but none too happy about

 the prospects. It made perfect sense, of course, as would any

 joint action the three rival guilds could agree upon. They

 had iced Entreri out of the system for fear that a minor

 guildmaster might empty his coffers and hire the assassin to

 kill one of the more prominent leaders. Those in the

 strongest positions of power preferred the status quo, and

 they all feared Entreri enough to recognize that he alone

 might upset that balance. What a testament to the man's

 reputation! And LaValle, above all others, understood it to

 be rightly given.

    "I understand," he said to Quentin, bowing to show his

 obedience. "Perhaps when the situation is better clarified we

 will find our opportunity to exploit my friendship with this

 very valuable man."

    Bodeau managed his first smile in several days, feeling

 assured by LaValle's seemingly sincere declarations. He was

 indeed far more at ease as they continued on their way to

 share an evening meal.

    But LaValle was not. He could hardly believe that the

 other guilds had moved so quickly to isolate Entreri. If that

 was the case, then he understood that they would be watching

 the assassin closely-close enough to learn of any attempts

 against Entreri and to bring about retaliation on any guild

 so foolish as to try to kill the man.

    LaValle ate quickly, then dismissed himself, explaining

 that he was in the middle of penning a particularly difficult

 scroll he hoped to finish that night.

    He went immediately to his crystal ball, hoping to locate

 Dog Perry, and was pleased indeed to learn that the fiery man

 and Chalsee Anguaine were both still within the guild house.

 He caught up to them on the street level in the main armory.

 He could guess easily enough why they might be in that

 particular room.

    "You plan to go out this evening?" the wizard calmly

 asked as he entered.

    "We go out every evening," Dog Perry replied. "It is our

 job, is it not?"

    "A few extra weapons?" LaValle asked suspiciously, noting

 that both men had daggers strapped to every conceivable

 retrievable position.

    "The guild lieutenant who is not careful is usually

 dead," Dog Perry replied dryly.

    "Indeed," LaValle conceded with a bow. "And, by word of

 the Basadoni, Wroning, and Rakers' guilds, the guild

 lieutenant who goes after Artemis Entreri is doing no favors

 for his master."

    The blunt declaration gave both men pause. Dog Perry

 worked through it quickly and calmly, getting back to his

 preparations with no discernible trace of guilt upon his

 blank expression. But Chalsee, less experienced by far,

 showed some clear signs of distress. LaValle knew he had hit

 the target directly. They were going after Entreri this very

 night.

    "I would have thought you would consult with me first,"

 the wizard remarked, "to learn his whereabouts, of course,

 and perhaps see some of the defenses he obviously has set in

 place."

    "You babble, wizard," Dog Perry insisted. "I have many

 duties to attend and have no time for your foolishness." He

 slammed the door of the weapons locker as he finished, then

 walked right past LaValle. A nervous Chalsee Anguaine fell

 into step behind him, glancing back many times.

    LaValle considered the cold treatment and recognized that

 Dog Perry had indeed decided to go after Entreri and had also

 decided that LaValle could not be trusted as far as the

 dangerous assassin was concerned. Now the wizard, in

 considering all the possibilities, found his own dilemma. If

 Dog Perry succeeded in killing Entreri the dangerous young

 man who had just pointedly declared himself no friend of

 LaValle's would gain immensely in stature and power (if the

 other guilds did not decide to kill him for his rash

 actions). But if Entreri won, which LaValle deemed most

 likely, then he might not appreciate the fact that LaValle

 had not contacted him with any warning, as they had agreed.

    And yet LaValle could not dare to use his magics and

 contact Entreri. If the other guilds were watching the

 assassin, such forms of contact would be easily detected and

 traced.

    A very distressed LaValle went back to his room and sat

 for a long while in the darkness. In either scenario, whether

 Dog Perry or Entreri proved victorious, the guild might be in

 for more than a little trouble. Should he go to Quentin

 Bodeau? he wondered, but then he dismissed the thought,

 realizing that Quentin would do little more than pace the

 floor and chew his fingernails. Dog Perry was out in the

 streets now, and Quentin had no means to recall him.

    Should he gaze into his crystal ball and try to learn of

 the battle? Again, LaValle had to consider that any magical

 contact, even if it was no more than silent scrying, might be

 detected by the wizards hired by the more powerful guilds and

 might then implicate LaValle.

    So he sat in the darkness, wondering and worrying, as the

 hours slipped by.

    

                            Chapter 6

                     LEAVING THE DALE BEHIND

  

    Drizzt watched every move the barbarian made-the way

 Wulfgar sat opposite him across the fire, the way the man

 went at his dinner-looking for some hint of the barbarian's

 mindset. Had the battle with the giants helped? Had Drizzt

 "run the horse" as he had explained his hopes to Regis? Or

 was Wulfgar in worse shape now than before the battle? Was he

 more consumed by this latest guilt, though his actions, or

 inaction, hadn't really cost them anything?

    Wulfgar had to recognize that he had not performed well

 at the beginning of the battle, but had he, in his own mind,

 made up for that error with his subsequent actions?

    Drizzt was as perceptive to such emotions as anyone

 alive, but, in truth, he could not get the slightest read of

 the barbarian's inner turmoil. Wulfgar moved methodically,

 mechanically, as he had since his return from Errtu's

 clutches, going through the motions of life itself without

 any outward sign of pain, satisfaction, relief, or anything

 else. Wulfgar was existing, but hardly living. If there

 remained a flicker of passion within those sky-blue orbs,

 Drizzt could not see it.

    Thus, the drow ranger was left with the impression that

 the battle with the giants had been inconsequential, had

 neither bolstered the barbarian's desire to live nor had

 placed any further burdens upon Wulfgar. In looking at his

 friend now, the man tearing a piece of fowl from the bone,

 his expression unchanging and un-revealing, Drizzt had to

 admit to himself that he had not only run out of answers but

 out of places to look for answers.

    Catti-brie moved over and sat down beside Wulfgar then,

 and the barbarian did pause to regard her. He even managed a

 little smile for her benefit. Perhaps she might succeed where

 he had failed, the drow thought. He and Wulfgar had been

 friends, to be sure, but the barbarian and Catti-brie had

 shared something much deeper than that.

    The thought of it brought a tumult of opposing feelings

 into Drizzt's gut. On the one hand he cared deeply for

 Wulfgar and wanted nothing more in all the world than for the

 barbarian to heal his emotional scars. On the other hand,

 seeing Catti-brie close to the man pained him. He tried to

 deny it, tried to elevate himself above it, but it was there,

 and it was a fact, and it would not go away.

    He was jealous.

    With great effort, the drow sublimated those feelings

 enough to honestly leave the couple alone. He went to join

 Bruenor and Regis and couldn't help but contrast the

 halfling's beaming face as he devoured his third helping with

 that of Wulfgar, who seemed to be eating only to keep his

 body alive. Pragmatism against pure pleasure.

    "We'll be out o' the dale tomorrow," Bruenor was saying,

 pointing out the dark silhouettes of the mountains, looming

 much larger to the south and east. Indeed, the wagon had

 turned the corner and they were heading south now, no longer

 west. The wind, which always filled the ears in Icewind Dale,

 had died to the occasional gust.

    "How's me boy?" Bruenor asked when he noticed the dark

 elf.

    Drizzt shrugged.

    "Ye could've got him killed, ye durned fool elf," the

 dwarf huffed. "Ye could've got us all killed. And not for the

 first time!"

    "And not for the last," Drizzt promised with a smile,

 bowing low. He knew that Bruenor was playing with him here,

 that the dwarf loved a good fight as much as he did,

 particularly one against giants. Bruenor had been upset with

 him, to be sure, but only because Drizzt hadn't included him

 in the original battle plans. The brief but brutal fight had

 long since exorcised that grudge from Bruenor, and so now he

 was just teasing the drow as a means of relieving his honest

 concerns for Wulfgar.

    "Did ye see his face when we battled?" the dwarf asked

 more earnestly. "Did ye see him when Rumblebelly showed up

 with his stinkin' giant friend and it appeared as if me boy

 was about to be squished flat?"

    Drizzt admitted that he did not. "I was engaged with my

 own concerns at the time," he explained. "And with

 Guenhwyvar's peril."

    "Nothing," Bruenor declared. "Nothing at all. No anger as

 he lifted his hammer to throw it at the giants."

    "The warrior sublimates his anger to keep in conscious

 control," the drow reasoned.

    "Bah, not like that," Bruenor retorted. "I saw rage in me

 boy when we fought Errtu on the ice island, rage beyond

 anything me old eyes've ever seen. And how I'd like to be

 seein' it again. Anger, rage, even fear!"

    "I saw him when I arrived at the battle," Regis admitted.

 "He did not know that the new and huge giant would be an

 ally, and if it was not, if it had joined in on the side of

 the other giants, then Wulfgar would have easily been killed,

 for he had no defense against our angle from his open ledge.

 And yet he was not afraid at all. He looked right up at the

 giant, and all I saw was..."

    "Resignation," the drow finished for him. "Acceptance of

 whatever fate might throw at him."

    "I'm not for understanding." Bruenor admitted.

    Drizzt had no answers for him. He had his suspicions, of

 course, that Wulfgar's trauma had been too great and had thus

 stolen from him his hopes and dreams, his passions and

 purpose, but he could find no way to put that into words that

 the ever-pragmatic dwarf might understand. He thought it

 ironic, in a sense, for the closest example of similar

 behavior he could recall was Bruenor's own, soon after

 Wulfgar had fallen to the yochlol. The dwarf had wandered

 aimlessly through the halls for days on end, grieving.

    Yes, Drizzt realized, that was the key word. Wulfgar was

 grieving.

    Bruenor would never understand, and Drizzt wasn't sure

 that he understood.

    "Time to go," Regis remarked, drawing the dark elf from

 his contemplation. Drizzt looked to the halfling, then to

 Bruenor.

    "Camlaine's invited us to a game o' bones," Bruenor

 explained. "Come along, elf. Yer eyes see better'n most, and

 I might be needing ye."

    Drizzt glanced back to the fire, to Wulfgar and Catti-

 brie, sitting very close and talking. He noted that Catti-

 brie wasn't doing all of the speaking. She had somehow

 engaged Wulfgar, even had him a bit animated in his

 discussion. A big part of Drizzt wanted to stay right there

 and watch their every move, but he wouldn't give in to that

 weakness, so he went with Bruenor and Regis to watch the game

 of bones.

    "Ye cannot know our pain at seeing the ceiling fall in on

 ye," Catti-brie said, gently moving the conversation to that

 fateful day in the bowels of Mithral Hall. Up to now, she and

 Wulfgar had been sharing happier memories of previous fights,

 battles in which the companions had overwhelmed monsters and

 put down threats without so high a price.

    Wulfgar had even joined in, telling of his first battle

 with Bruenor-against Bruenor-when he had broken his standard

 staff over the dwarf's head, only to have the stubborn little

 creature swipe his legs out from under him and leave him

 unconscious on the field. As the conversation wound on,

 Catti-brie focused on another pivotal event: the Grafting of

 Aegis-fang. What a labor of love that had been, the pinnacle

 of Bruenor's amazing career as a smith, done purely out of

 the dwarf's affection for Wulfgar.

    "If he hadn't loved ye so, he'd ne'er been able to make

 so great a weapon," she had explained. When she saw that her

 words were getting through to the pained man she had shifted

 the conversation subtly again, to the reverential treatment

 Bruenor had shown the warhammer after Wulfgar's apparent

 demise. And that, of course, had brought Catti-brie to the

 discussion of the day of Wulfgar's fall, to the memory of the

 evil yochlol.

    To her great relief, Wulfgar had not tightened up when

 she went in this direction, but had stayed with her, hearing

 her words and adding his own when they seemed relevant.

    "All the strength went from me body," Catti-brie went on.

 "And never have I seen Bruenor closer to breaking. But we

 went on and started fighting in yer name, and woe to our

 enemies then."

    A distant look came into Wulfgar's light eyes and the

 woman went silent, giving him time to digest her words. She

 thought he would respond, but he did not, and the seconds

 slipped away quietly.

    Catti-brie moved closer to him and put her arm about his

 back, resting her head on his strong shoulder. He didn't push

 her away, even shifted so they would both be more

 comfortable. The woman had hoped for more, had hoped to get

 Wulfgar into an emotional release. But while she hadn't

 achieved quite that, she recognized that she had gotten more

 than she could have rightfully expected. The love had not

 resurfaced, but neither had the rage.

    It would take time.

    The group did indeed roll out of Icewind Dale the next

 morning, a distinction made clear by the shifting wind. In

 the dale, the wind came from the northeast, rolling down off

 the cold waters of the Sea of Moving Ice. At the juncture to

 points south, east, and north of the bulk of the mountains,

 the wind blew constantly no longer, but was more a matter of

 gusts than the incessant whistle through the dale. And now,

 moving more to the south, the wind again kicked up, swirling

 against the towering Spine of the World. Unlike the cold

 breeze that gave its name to Icewind Dale, this was a gentle

 blow. The winds wafted up from warmer climes to the south or

 off the warmer waters of the Sword Coast, hitting against the

 blocking mountains and swirling back.

    Drizzt and Bruenor spent most of the day away from the

 wagon, both to scout a perimeter about the steady but slow

 pacing team and to give some privacy to Catti-brie and

 Wulfgar. The woman was still talking, still trying to bring

 the man to a better place and time. Regis rode all the day

 long nestled in the back of the wagon among the generous-

 smelling foodstuffs.

    It proved to be a quiet and uneventful day of travel,

 except for one point where Drizzt found a particularly

 disturbing track, that of a huge, booted giant.

    "Rumblebelly's friend?" Bruenor asked, bending low beside

 the ranger as he inspected the footprint.

    "So I would guess," Drizzt replied.

    "Durned halfling put more of a spell than he should've on

 the thing," Bruenor grumbled.

    Drizzt, who understood the power of the ruby pendant and

 the nature of enchantments in general, could not agree. He

 knew that the giant, no stupid creature, had been released

 from any spell Regis had woven soon after leaving the group.

 Likely, before they were miles apart, the giant had begun to

 wonder why in the world he had ever deigned to help the

 halfling and his strange group of friends. Then, soon after

 that, he had either forgotten the whole incident or was angry

 indeed at having been so deceived.

    And now the behemoth seemed to be shadowing them, Drizzt

 realized, noting the general course of the tracks.

    Perhaps it was mere coincidence, or perhaps even a

 different giant-Icewind Dale had no shortage of giants, after

 all. Drizzt could not be sure, and so, when he and Bruenor

 returned to the group for their evening meal, they said

 nothing about the footprints or about increasing the night

 watch. Drizzt did go off on his own, though, as much to get

 away from the continuing scene between Catti-brie and Wulfgar

 as to scout for any rogue giants. There in the dark of night,

 he could be alone with his thoughts and his fears, could wage

 his own emotional wars and remind himself over and over that

 Catti-brie alone could decide the course of her life.

    Every time he recalled an incident highlighting how

 intelligent and honest the woman had always been, he was

 comforted. When the full moon began its lazy ascent over the

 distant waters of the Sword Coast, the drow felt strangely

 warm. Though he could hardly see the glow of the campfire, he

 understood that he was truly among friends.

    Wulfgar looked deeply into her blue eyes and knew that

 she had purposefully brought him to this point, had smoothed

 the jagged edges of his battered consciousness slowly and

 deliberately, had massaged the walls of anger until her

 gentle touch had rubbed them into transparency. And now she

 wanted, she demanded, to look behind those walls, wanted to

 see the demons that so tormented Wulfgar.

    Catti-brie sat quietly, calmly, patiently waiting. She

 had coaxed some specific horror stories out of the man and

 then had probed deeper, had asked him to lay bare his soul

 and his terror, something she knew could not be easy for the

 proud and strong man.

    But Wulfgar hadn't rebuffed her. He sat now, his thoughts

 whirling, his gaze locked firmly by hers, his breath coming

 in gasps, his heart pounding in his huge chest.

    "For so long I held on to you," he said quietly. "Down

 there, among the smoke and the dirt, I held fast to an image

 of my Catti-brie. I kept it right before me at all times. I

 did."

    He paused to catch his breath, and Catti-brie placed a

 gentle hand on his.

    "So many sights that a man was not meant to view,"

 Wulfgar said quietly, and Catti-brie saw a hint of moisture

 in his light eyes. "But I fought them all with an image of

 you."

    Catti-brie offered a smile, but that did little to

 comfort Wulfgar.

    "He used it against me," the man went on, his tone

 lowering, becoming almost a growl. "Errtu knew my thoughts

 and turned them against me. He showed me the finish of the

 yochlol fight, the creature pushing through the rubble,

 falling over you and tearing you to pieces. Then it went for

 Bruenor...."

    "Was it not the yochlol that brought you to the lower

 planes?" Catti-brie asked, trying to use logic to break the

 demonic spell.

    "I do not remember," Wulfgar admitted. "I remember the

 fall of the stones, the pain of the yochlol's bite tearing

 into my chest, and then only blackness until I awakened in

 the court of the Spider Queen.

    "But even that image ... you do not understand! The one

 thing I could hold onto Errtu perverted and turned against

 me. The one hope left in my heart burned away and left me

 empty."

    Catti-brie moved closer, her face barely an inch from

 Wulfgar's. "But hope rekindles," she said softly. "Errtu is

 gone, banished for a hundred years, and the Spider Queen and

 her hellish drow minions have shown no interest in Drizzt for

 years. That road has ended, it seems, and so many new ones

 lie before us. The road to the Spirit Soaring and Cadderly.

 From there to Mithral Hall perhaps, and then, if we choose,

 we might go to Waterdeep and Captain Deudermont, take a wild

 voyage on Sea Sprite, cutting the waves and chasing pirates.

    "What possibilities lie before us!" she went on, her

 smile wide, her blue eyes flashing with excitement. "But

 first we must make peace with our past."

    Wulfgar heard her well, but he only shook his head,

 reminding her that it might not be as easy as she made it

 sound. "For all those years you thought I was dead," he said.

 "And so I thought of you for that time. I thought you killed,

 and Bruenor killed, and Drizzt cut apart on the altar of some

 vile drow matron. I surrendered hope because there was none."

    "But you see the lie," Catti-brie reasoned. "There is

 always hope, there must always be hope. That is the lie of

 Errtu's evil kind. The lie about them, and the lie that is

 them. They steal hope, because without hope there is no

 strength. Without hope there is no freedom. In slavery of the

 heart does a demon find its greatest pleasures."

    Wulfgar took a deep, deep breath, trying to digest it

 all, balancing the logical truths of Catti-brie's words- and

 of the simple fact that he had indeed escaped Errtu's

 clutches-against the pervasive pain of memory.

    Catti-brie, too, spent a long moment digesting all that

 Wulfgar had shown to her over the past days. She understood

 now that it was more than pain and horror that bound her

 friend. Only one emotion could so cripple a man. In replaying

 his memories within his own mind, Wulfgar had found some

 wherein he had surrendered, wherein he had given in to the

 desires of Errtu or the demon's minions, wherein he had lost

 his courage or his defiance. Yes, it was obvious to Catti-

 brie, staring hard at the man now that guilt above all else

 was the enduring demon of Wulfgar's time with Errtu.

    Of course to her that seemed absurd. She could readily

 forgive anything Wulfgar had said or done to survive the

 decadence of the Abyss. Anything at all. But it was not

 absurd, she quickly reminded herself, for it was painted

 clearly on the big man's pained features.

    Wulfgar squinted his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. She

 was right, he told himself repeatedly. The past was past, an

 experience dismissed, a lesson learned. Now they were all

 together again, healthy and on the road of adventure. Now he

 had learned the errors of his previous engagement to Catti-

 brie and could look at her with fresh hopes and desires.

    She recognized a measure of calm come over the man as he

 opened his eyes again to stare back at her. And then he came

 forward, kissing her softly, just brushing his lips against

 hers as if asking permission.

    Catti-brie glanced all around and saw that they were

 indeed alone. Though the others were not so far away, those

 who were not asleep were too engaged in their gambling to

 take note of anything.

    Wulfgar kissed her again, a bit more urgently, forcing

 her to consider her feelings for the man. Did she love him?

 As a friend, surely, but was she ready to take that love to a

 different level?

    Catti-brie honestly did not know. Once she had decided to

 give her love to Wulfgar, to marry him and bear his children,

 to make her life with him. But that was so many years ago, a

 different time, a different place. Now she had feelings for

 another, perhaps, though in truth, she hadn't really examined

 those feelings any deeper than she had her current feelings

 for Wulfgar.

    And she hadn't the time to examine them now, for Wulfgar

 kissed her again passionately. When she didn't respond in

 kind, he backed off to arms' length, staring at her hard.

    Looking at him then, on the brink of disaster, on a

 precipice between past and future, Catti-brie came to

 understand that she had to give this to him. She pulled him

 back and initiated another kiss, and they embraced deeply,

 Wulfgar guiding her to the ground, rolling about, touching,

 caressing, fumbling with their clothes.

    She let him lose himself in the passion, let him lead

 with touches and kisses, and she took comfort in the role she

 had accepted, took hope that their encounter this night would

 help bring Wulfgar back to the world of the living.

    And it was working. Wulfgar knew it, felt it. He bared

 his heart and soul to her, threw away his defenses, basked in

 the feel of her, in the sweet smell of her, in the very

 softness of her.

    He was free! For those first few moments he was free, and

 it was glorious and beautiful, and so real.

    He rolled to his back, his strong hug rolling Catti-brie

 atop him. He bit softly on the nape of her neck, then,

 nearing a point of ecstasy, leaned his head back so that he

 could look into her eyes and share the moment of joy.

    A leering succubus, vile temptress of the Abyss, stared

 back at him.

    Wulfgar's thoughts careened back across Icewind Dale,

 back to the Sea of Moving Ice, to the ice cave and the fight

 with Errtu, then back beyond that, back to the swirling smoke

 and the horrors. It had all been a lie, he realized. The

 fight, the escape, the rejoining with his friends. All a lie

 perpetrated by Errtu to rekindle his hope that the demon

 could then snuff it out once again. All a lie, and he was

 still in the Abyss, dreaming of Catti-brie while entwining

 with a horrid succubus.

    His powerful hand clamped under the creature's chin and

 pushed it away. His second hand came across in a vicious

 punch and then he lifted the beast into the air above his

 prone form and heaved it away, bouncing across the dirt. With

 a roar, Wulfgar pulled himself to his feet, fumbling to lift

 and straighten his pants. He staggered for the fire and,

 ignoring the pain, reached in to grab a burning branch, then

 turned back to attack the wicked succubus.

    Turned back to attack Catti-brie.

    He recognized her then, half-undressed, staggering to her

 hands and knees, blood dripping freely from her nose. She

 managed to look up at him. There was no rage, only confusion

 on her battered face. The weight of guilt nearly buckled the

 barbarian's strong legs.

    "I did not . . ." he stammered. "Never would I ..." With

 a gasp and a stifled cry, Wulfgar rushed across the campsite,

 tossing the burning stick aside, gathering up his pack and

 warhammer. He ran out into the dark of night, into the

 ultimate darkness of his tormented mind.

    

                            Chapter 7

                          KELP-ENWALLED

  

    You cannot come in," the squeaky voice said from behind

 the barricade. "Please, sir, I beg you. Go away."

    Entreri hardly found the halfling's nervous tone amusing,

 for the implications of the shut-out rang dangerously in his

 mind. He and Dwahvel had cut a deal- a mutually beneficial

 deal and one that seemed to favor the halfling, if anyone-and

 yet, now it seemed as if Dwahvel was going back on her word.

 Her doorman would not even let the assassin into the Copper

 Ante. Entreri entertained the thought of kicking in the

 barricade, but only briefly. He reminded himself that

 halflings were often adept at setting traps. Then he thought

 he might slip his dagger through the slit in the boards, into

 the impertinent doorman's arm, or thumb, or whatever other

 target presented itself. That was the beauty of Entreri's

 dagger: he could stick someone anywhere and suck the life-

 force right out of him.

    But again, it was a fleeting thought, more of a fantasy

 wrought of frustration than any action the ever-careful

 Entreri would seriously consider.

    "So I shall go," he said calmly. "But do inform Dwahvel

 that my world is divided between friends and enemies." He

 turned and started away, leaving the doorman in a fluster.

    "My, but that sounded like a threat," came another voice

 before Entreri had moved ten paces down the street.

    The assassin stopped and considered a small crack in the

 wall of the Copper Ante, a peep hole, he realized, and likely

 an arrow slit.

    "Dwahvel," he said with a slight bow.

    To his surprise, the crack widened and a panel slid

 aside. Dwahvel walked out in the open. "So quick to name

 enemies," she said, shaking her head, her curly brown locks

 bouncing gaily.

    "But I did not," the assassin replied. "Though it did

 anger me that you apparently decided not to go through with

 our deal."

    Dwahvel's face tightened suddenly, stealing the up-to-

 then lighthearted tone. "Kelp-enwalled," she explained, an

 expression more common to the fishing boats than the streets,

 but one Entreri had heard before. On the fishing boats,

 "kelp-enwalling" referred to the practice of isolating

 particularly troublesome pincer crabs, which had to be

 delivered live to market, by building barricades of kelp

 strands about them. The term was less literal, but with

 similar meaning, on the street. A kelp-enwalled person had

 been declared off-limits, surrounded and isolated by

 barricades of threats.

    Suddenly Entreri's expression also showed the strain.

    "The order came from greater guilds than mine, from

 guilds that could, and would, burn the Copper Ante to the

 ground and kill all of my fellows with hardly a thought,"

 Dwahvel said with a shrug. "Entreri is kelp-enwalled, so they

 said. You cannot blame me for refusing your entrance."

    Entreri nodded. He above many others could appreciate

 pragmatism for the sake of survival. "Yet you chose to come

 out and speak with me," he said.

    Another shrug from Dwahvel. "Only to explain why our deal

 has ended," she said. "And to ensure that I do not fall into

 the latter category you detailed for my doorman. I will offer

 to you this much, with no charge for services. Everyone knows

 now that you have returned, and your mere presence has made

 them all nervous. Old Basadoni still rules his guild, but he

 is in the shadows now, more a figurehead than a leader. Those

 handling the affairs of the Basadoni Guild, and the other

 guilds, for that matter, do not know you. But they do know

 your reputation. Thus they fear you as they fear each other.

 Might not Pasha Wroning fear that the Rakers have hired

 Entreri to kill him? Or even within the individual guilds,

 might those vying for position before the coming event of

 Pasha Basadoni's death not fear that one of the others has

 coaxed Entreri back to assure personal ascension?"

    Entreri nodded again but replied, "Or is it not possible

 that Artemis Entreri has merely returned to his home?"

    "Of course," Dwahvel said. "But until they all learn the

 truth of you, they will fear you, and the only way to learn

 the truth-"

    "Kelp-enwalled," the assassin finished. He started to

 thank Dwahvel for showing the courage of coming out to tell

 him this much, but he stopped short. He recognized that

 perhaps the halfling was only following orders, that perhaps

 this meeting was part of the surveying process.

    "Watch well your back," Dwahvel added, moving for the

 secret door. "You understand that there are many who would

 like to claim the head of Entreri for their trophy wall."

    "What do you know?" the assassin asked, for it seemed

 obvious to him that Dwahvel wasn't speaking merely in

 generalities here.

    "Before the kelp-enwalling order, my spies went out to

 learn what they may about the perceptions concerning your

 return," she explained. "They were asked more questions than

 they offered and often by young, strong assassins. Watch well

 your back." And then she was gone, back through the secret

 door into the Copper Ante.

    Entreri just blew a sigh and walked along. He didn't

 question his return to Calimport, for either way it simply

 didn't seem important to him. Nor did he start looking more

 deeply into the shadows that lined the dark street. Perhaps

 one or more held his killer. Perhaps not.

    Perhaps it simply did not matter.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Perry," Giunta the Diviner said to Kadran Gordeon as the

 two watched the young thug steal along the rooftops,

 shadowing, from a very safe distance, the movements of

 Artemis Entreri. "A lieutenant for Bodeau."

    "Is he watching?" Kadran asked.

    "Hunting," the wizard corrected.

    Kadran didn't doubt the man. Giunta's entire life had

 been spent in observation. This wizard was the watcher, and

 from the patterns of those he observed he could then predict

 with an amazing degree of accuracy their next movements.

    "Why would Bodeau risk everything to go after Entreri?"

 the fighter asked. "Surely he knows of the kelp-enwalling

 order, and Entreri has a long alliance with that particular

 guild."

    "You presume that Bodeau even knows of this," Giunta

 explained. "I have seen this one before. Dog Perry, he is

 called, though he fancies himself 'the Heart.'"

    That nickname rang a chime of recognition in Kadran. "For

 his practice of cutting a still-beating heart from the chest

 of his victims," the man remarked. "A brash young killer," he

 added, nodding, for now it made sense.

    "Not unlike one I know," Giunta said slyly, turning his

 gaze over Kadran.

    Kadran smiled in reply. Indeed, Dog Perry was not so

 unlike a younger Kadran, brash and skilled. The years had

 taught Kadran some measure of humility, however, though many

 of those who knew him well thought he was still a bit

 deficient in that regard. He looked more closely at Dog Perry

 now, the man moving silently and carefully along the rim of a

 rooftop. Yes, there seemed a resemblance to the young thug

 Kadran used to be. Less polished and less wise, obviously,

 for even in his cocky youth Kadran doubted that he would have

 gone after the likes of Artemis Entreri so soon after the

 man's return to Calimport and obviously without too much

 preparation.

    "He must have allies in the region," Kadran remarked to

 Giunta. "Seek out the other rooftops. Surely the young thug

 would not be foolish enough to hunt Entreri alone."

    Giunta widened his scan. He found Entreri moving easily

 along the main boulevard and recognized many other characters

 in the area, regulars who held no known connection to

 Bodeau's guild or to Dog Perry.

    "Him," the wizard explained, pointing to another figure

 weaving in and out of the shadows, following the same route

 as Entreri, but far, far behind. "Another of Bodeau's men, I

 believe."

    "He does not seem overly intent on joining the fight,"

 Kadran noted, for the man seemed to hesitate with every step.

 He was so far behind Entreri and losing ground with each

 passing second that he could have jumped out and run full

 speed at the man down the middle of the street without being

 noticed by the pursued assassin.

    "Perhaps he is merely observing," Giunta remarked as he

 moved the focus of the crystal ball back to the two

 assassins, their paths beginning to intersect, "following his

 ally at the request of Bodeau to see how Dog Perry fares.

 There are many possibilities, but if he does mean to get into

 the fight beside Dog Perry, then he should run fast. Entreri

 is not one to drag out a battle, and it seems-"

    He stopped abruptly as Dog Perry moved to the edge of a

 roof and crouched low, muscles tensing. The young assassin

 had found his spot of ambush, and Entreri turned into the

 ally, seemingly playing into the man's hand.

    "We could warn him," Kadran said, licking his lips

 nervously.

    "Entreri is already on his guard," the wizard explained.

 "Surely he has sensed my scrying. A man of his talents could

 not be magically looked at without his knowledge." the wizard

 gave a little chuckle. "Farewell, Dog Perry," he said.

    Even as the words came out of his mouth, the would-be

 assassin leaped down from the roof, hitting the ground in a

 rush barely three strides behind Entreri, closing so fast

 that almost any man would have been skewered before he even

 registered the noise behind him.

    Almost any man.

    Entreri spun as Dog Perry rushed in, Perry's slender

 sword leading. A brush of the spinning assassin's left hand,

 holding the ample folds of his cloak as further protection,

 deflected the blow wide. Ahead went Entreri, a sudden step,

 pushing up with his left hand, lifting Dog Perry's arm as he

 went. He moved right under the now off-balance would-be

 killer, stabbing up into the armpit with his jeweled dagger

 as he passed. Then, so quickly that Dog Perry never had a

 chance to compensate, so quickly that Kadran and Giunta

 hardly noticed the subtle turn, he pivoted back, turning to

 face Dog Perry's back. Entreri tore the dagger free and

 flipped it to his descending left hand, snapped his right

 hand around to the chin of the would-be killer, and kicked

 the man in the back of the knees, buckling his legs and

 forcing him back and down. The older assassin's left hand

 stabbed up, driving the dagger under the back of Dog Perry's

 skull and deep into his brain.

    Entreri retracted the dagger immediately and let the dead

 man fall to the ground, blood pooling under him, so quickly

 and so efficiently that Entreri didn't even have a drop of

 blood on him.

    Giunta, laughing, pointed to the end of the ally, back on

 the street, where the stunned companion of Dog Perry took one

 look at the victorious Entreri, turned on his heel, and ran

 away.

    "Yes, indeed," Giunta remarked. "Let the word go out on

 the streets that Artemis Entreri has returned."

    Kadran Gordeon spent a long while staring at the dead

 man. He struck his customary pensive pose, pursing his lips

 so that his long and curvy mustache tilted on his dark face.

 He had entertained the idea of going after Entreri himself,

 and now was quite plainly shocked by the sheer skill of the

 man. It was Gordeon's first true experience with Entreri, and

 suddenly he understood that the man had come by his

 reputation honestly.

    But Kadran Gordeon was not Dog Perry, was far more

 skilled than that young humbler. Perhaps he would indeed pay

 a visit to this former king of assassins.

    "Exquisite," came Sharlotta's voice behind the two. They

 turned to see the woman staring past them into the image in

 Giunta's large crystal ball. "Pasha Basadoni told me I would

 be impressed. How well he moves!"

    "Shall I repay the Bodeau guild for breaking the kelp-

 enwalling order?" Kadran asked.

    "Forget them," Sharlotta retorted, moving closer, her

 eyes twinkling with admiration. "Concentrate our attention

 upon that one alone. Find him and enlist him. Let us find a

 job for Artemis Entreri."

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Drizzt found Catti-brie sitting on the back lip of the

 wagon. Regis sat next to her, holding a cloth to her face.

 Bruenor, axe swinging dangerously at his side, pacing back

 and forth, grumbled a stream of curses. The drow knew at once

 what had happened, the simple truth of it anyway, and when he

 considered it, he was not so surprised that Wulfgar had

 struck out.

    "He did not mean to do it," Catti-brie said to Bruenor,

 trying to calm the volatile dwarf. She, too, was obviously

 angry, but she, like Drizzt, understood better the truth of

 Wulfgar's emotional turmoil. "I'm thinking he wasn't seein'

 me," the woman went on, speaking more to Drizzt. "Looking

 back at Errtu's torments, by me guess."

    Drizzt nodded. "As it was at the beginning of the fight

 with the giants," he said.

    "And so ye're to let it go?" Bruenor roared in reply.

 "Ye're thinkin' that ye can't hold the boy responsible?

    Bah! I'll give him a beating that'll make his years with

 Errtu seem easy! Go and get him, elf. Bring him back that he

 can tell me girl he's sorry. Then he can tell me. Then he can

 find me fist in his mouth and take a good long sleep to think

 about it!" With a growl, Bruenor drove his axe deep into the

 ground. "I heared too much o' this Errtu," he declared. "Ye

 can't be livin' in what's already done!"

    Drizzt had little doubt that if Wulfgar walked back into

 camp at that moment, it would take him, Catti-brie, Regis,

 Camlaine, and all his companions just to pull Bruenor off the

 man. And in looking at Catti-brie, one eye swollen, her

 bloody nose bright red, the ranger wasn't sure he would be

 too quick to hold the dwarf back.

    Without another word Drizzt turned and walked away, out

 of the camp and into the darkness. Wulfgar couldn't have gone

 far, he knew, though the night was not so dark with the big

 moon shining bright across the tundra. Just outside the

 campsite he took out his figurine. Guenhwyvar led the way,

 rushing into the darkness and growling back to guide the

 running ranger.

    To Drizzt's surprise the trail led neither south nor back

 to the northeast and Ten Towns, but straight east, toward the

 towering black peaks of the Spine of the World. Soon

 Guenhwyvar led him into the foothills, dangerous territory

 indeed, for the high bluffs and rocky outcroppings provided

 fine ambush points for lurking monsters or highwaymen.

    Perhaps, Drizzt mused, that was exactly why Wulfgar had

 come this way. Perhaps he was looking for trouble, for a

 fight, or maybe even for some giant to surprise him and end

 his pain.

    Drizzt skidded to a stop and blew a long and profound

 sigh, for what seemed most unsettling to him was not the

 thought that Wulfgar was inviting disaster, but his own

 reaction to it. For at that moment, the image of hurt Catti-

 brie clear in his mind, the ranger almost-almost-thought that

 such an ending to Wulfgar's tale would not be such a terrible

 thing.

    A call from Guenhwyvar brought him from his thoughts. He

 sprinted up a steep incline, leaped to another boulder, then

 skittered back down to another trail. He heard a growl-from

 Wulfgar and not the panther-then a crash as Aegis-fang

 slammed against some stone. The crash was near to Guenhwyvar,

 Drizzt realized, from the sound of the hit and the cat's

 ensuing protesting roars.

    Drizzt leaped over a stone lip, rushed across a short

 expanse, and jumped down a small drop to land lightly right

 beside the big man just as the warhammer magically reappeared

 in his grasp. For a moment, considering the wild look in

 Wulfgar's eyes, the drow thought he would have to draw his

 blades and fight the man, but Wulfgar calmed quickly. He

 seemed merely defeated, his rage thrown out.

    "I did not know," he said, slumping back against the

 stone.

    "I understand," Drizzt replied, holding back his own

 anger and trying to sound compassionate.

    "It was not Catti-brie," Wulfgar went on. "In my

 thoughts, I mean. I was not with her, but back there, in that

 place of darkness."

    "I know," said Drizzt. "And so does Catti-brie, though I

 fear we shall have some work ahead of us in calming Bruenor."

 He ended with a wide and warm smile, but his attempt to

 lighten the situation was lost on Wulfgar.

    "He is right to be outraged," the barbarian admitted. "As

 I am outraged, in a way you cannot begin to understand."

    "Do not underestimate the value of friendship," Drizzt

 answered. "I once made a similar error, nearly to the

 destruction of all that I hold dear."

    Wulfgar shook his head through every word of it, unable

 to find any footing for agreement. Black waves of despair

 washed over him, burying him. What he had done was beyond

 forgiveness, especially since he realized, and admitted to

 himself, that it would likely happen again. "I am lost," he

 said softly.

    "And we will all help you to find your way," Drizzt

 answered, putting a comforting hand on the big man's

 shoulder.

    Wulfgar pushed him away. "No," he said firmly, and then

 he gave a little laugh. "There is no way to find. The

 darkness of Errtu endures. Under that shadow, I cannot be who

 you want me to be."

    "We only want you to remember who you once were," the

 drow replied. "In the ice cave, we rejoiced to find Wulfgar,

 son of Beornegar, returned to us."

    "He was not," the big man corrected. "I am not the man

 who left you in Mithral Hall. I can never be that man again."

    "Time will heal-" Drizzt started to say, but Wulfgar

 silenced him with a roar.

    "No!" he cried. "I do not ask for healing. I do not wish

 to become again the man that I was. Perhaps I have learned

 the truth of the world, and that truth has shown me the

 errors of my previous ways."

    Drizzt stared hard at the man. "And the better way is to

 punch an unsuspecting Catti-brie?" he asked, his voice

 dripping with sarcasm, his patience for the man fast running

 out.

    Wulfgar locked stares with Drizzt, and again the drow's

 hands went to his scimitar hilts. He could hardly believe the

 level of anger rising within him, overwhelming his compassion

 for his sorely tormented friend. He understood that if

 Wulfgar did try to strike at him, he would fight the man

 without holding back.

    "I look at you now and remember that you are my friend,"

 Wulfgar said, relaxing his tense posture enough to assure

 Drizzt that he did not mean to strike out. "And yet those

 reminders come only with strong willpower. Easier it is for

 me to hate you, and hate everything around me, and on those

 occasions when I do not immediately summon the willpower to

 remember the truth, I will strike out."

    "As you did with Catti-brie," Drizzt replied, and his

 tone was not accusatory, but rather showed a sincere attempt

 to understand and empathize.

    Wulfgar nodded. "I did not even recognize that it was

 her," he said. "It was just another of Errtu's fiends, the

 worst kind, the kind that tempted me and defeated my

 willpower, and then left me not with burns or wounds but with

 the weight of guilt, with the knowledge of failure. I wanted

 to resist....I..."

    "Enough, my friend," Drizzt said quietly. "You shoulder

 blame where you should not. It was no failure of Wulfgar, but

 the unending cruelty of Errtu."

    "It was both," said a defeated Wulfgar. "And that failure

 compounds with every moment of weakness."

    "We will speak with Bruenor," Drizzt assured him. "We

 will use this incident as a guide and learn from it."

    "You may say to Bruenor whatever you choose," the big man

 said, his tone suddenly turning ice cold once more. "For I

 will not be there to hear it."

    "You will return to your own people?" Drizzt asked,

 though he knew in his heart that the barbarian wasn't saying

 any such thing.

    "I will find whatever road I choose," Wulfgar replied.

 "Alone."

    "I once played this game."

    "Game?" the big man echoed incredulously. "I have never

 been more serious in all my life. Now go back to them, back

 where you belong. When you think of me, think of the man I

 once was, the man who would never strike Catti-brie."

    Drizzt started to reply, but stopped himself and stood

 studying his broken friend. In truth, he had nothing to say

 that might comfort Wulfgar. While he wanted to believe that

 he and the others could help coax the man back to rational

 behavior, he wasn't certain of it. Not at all. Would Wulfgar

 strike out again, at Catti-brie, or at any of them, perhaps

 hurting one of them severely? Would the big man's return to

 the group facilitate a true fight between him and Bruenor, or

 between him and Drizzt? Or would Catti-brie, in self-defense,

 drive Khazid'hea, her deadly sword, deep into the man's

 chest? On the surface, these fears all rang as preposterous

 in the drow's mind, but after watching Wulfgar carefully

 these past few days, he could not dismiss the troublesome

 possibility.

    And perhaps worst of all, he had to consider his own

 feelings when he had seen the battered Catti-brie. He hadn't

 been the least bit surprised.

    Wulfgar started away, and Drizzt instinctively grabbed

 him by the forearm.

    Wulfgar spun and threw the drow's hand aside. "Farewell,

 Drizzt Do'Urden," he said sincerely, and those words conveyed

 many of his unspoken thoughts to Drizzt. A longing to go with

 the drow back to the group, a plea that things could be as

 they had once been, the friends, the companions of the hall,

 running down the road to adventure. And most of all, in that

 lucid tone, words spoken so clearly and deliberately and

 thoughtfully, they brought to Drizzt a sense of finality. He

 could not stop Wulfgar, short of hamstringing the man with a

 scimitar. And in his heart, at that terrible moment, he knew

 that he should not stop Wulfgar. "Find yourself," Drizzt

 said, "and then find us." "Perhaps," was all that Wulfgar

 could offer. Without looking back, he walked away.

    For Drizzt Do'Urden, the walk back to the wagon to rejoin

 his friends was the longest journey of his life.

    

                             Part 2

  

                   WALKING THE ROADS OF DANGER

    

    We each have our own path to tread. That seems such a

 simple and obvious thought, but in a world of relationships

 where so many people sublimate their own true feelings and

 desires in consideration of others, we take many steps off

 that true path.

    In the end, though, if we are to be truly happy, we must

 follow our hearts and find our way alone. I learned that

 truth when I walked out of Menzoberranzan and confirmed my

 path when I arrived in Icewind Dale and found these wonderful

 friends. After the last brutal fight in Mithral Hall, when

 half of Menzoberranzan, it seemed, marched to destroy the

 dwarves, I knew that my path lay elsewhere, that I needed to

 journey, to find a new horizon on which to set my gaze.

 Catti-brie knew it too, and because I understood that her

 desire to go along was not in sympathy to my desires but true

 to her own heart, I welcomed the company.

    We each have our own path to tread, and so I learned,

 painfully, that fateful morning in the mountains, that

 Wulfgar had found one that diverged from my own. How I wanted

 to stop him! How I wanted to plead with him or, if that

 failed, to beat him into unconsciousness and drag him back to

 the camp. When we parted, I felt a hole in my heart nearly as

 profound as that which I had felt when I first learned of his

 apparent death in the fight against the yochlol.

    And then, after I walked away, pangs of guilt layered

 above the pain of loss. Had I let Wulfgar go so easily

 because of his relationship with Catti-brie? Was there some

 place within me that saw my barbarian friend's return as a

 hindrance to a relationship that I had been building with the

 woman since we had ridden from Mithral Hall together?

    The guilt could find no true hold and was gone by the

 time I rejoined my companions. As I had my road to walk, and

 now Wulfgar his, so too would Catti-brie find hers. With me?

 With Wulfgar? Who could know? But whatever her road, I would

 not try to alter it in such a manner. I did not let Wulfgar

 go easily for any sense of personal gain. Not at all, for

 indeed my heart weighed heavy. No, I let Wulfgar go without

 much of an argument because I knew that there was nothing I,

 or our other friends, could do to heal the wounds within him.

 Nothing I could say to him could bring him solace, and if

 Catti-brie had begun to make any progress, then surely it had

 been destroyed in the flick of Wulfgar's fist slamming into

 her face.

                             Partly it was fear that drove Wulfgar from us. He

 believed that he could not control the demons within him and

 that, in the grasp of those painful recollections, he might

 truly hurt one of us. Mostly, though, Wulfgar left us because

 of shame. How could he face Bruenor again after striking

 Catti-brie? How could he face Catti-brie? What words might he

 say in apology when in truth, and he knew it, it very well

 might happen again? And beyond that one act, Wulfgar

 perceived himself as weak because the images of Errtu's

 legacy were so overwhelming him. Logically, they were but

 memories and nothing tangible to attack the strong man. To

 Wulfgar's pragmatic view of the world, being defeated by mere

 memories equated to great weakness. In his culture, being

 defeated in battle is no cause for shame, but running from

 battle is the highest dishonor.

    Along that same line of reasoning, being unable to defeat

 a great monster is acceptable, but being defeated by an

 intangible thing such as a memory equates with cowardice.

    He will learn better, I believe. He will come to

 understand the he should feel no shame for his inability to

 cope with the persistent horrors and temptations of Errtu and

 the Abyss. And then, when he relieves himself from the burden

 of shame, he will find a way to truly overcome those horrors

 and dismiss his guilt over the temptations. Only then will he

 return to Icewind Dale, to those who love him and who will

 welcome him back eagerly.

    Only then.

    That is my hope, not my expectation. Wulfgar ran off into

 the wilds, into the Spine of the World, where yetis and

 giants and goblin tribes make their homes, where wolves will

 take their food as they find it, whether hunting a deer or a

 man. I do not honestly know if he means to come out of the

 mountains back to the tundra he knows well, or to the more

 civilized southland, or if he will wander the high and

 dangerous trails, daring death in an attempt to restore some

 of the courage he believes he has lost. Or perhaps he will

 tempt death too greatly, so that it will finally win out and

 put an end to his pain.

    That is my fear.

    I do not know. We each have our own roads to tread, and

 Wulfgar has found his, and it is a path, I understand, that

 is not wide enough for a companion.

    

    -Drizzt Do'Urden

    

                            Chapter 8

                       INADVERTENT SIGNALS

  

    They moved somberly, for the thrill of adventure and the

 joy of being reunited and on the road again had been stolen

 by Wulfgar's departure. When he returned to camp and

 explained the barbarian's absence, Drizzt had been truly

 surprised by the reactions of his companions. At first,

 predictably, Catti-brie and Regis had screamed that they must

 go and find the man, while Bruenor just grumbled about

 "stupid humans." Both the halfling and the woman had calmed

 quickly, though, and it turned out to be Catti-brie's voice

 above all the others proclaiming that Wulfgar needed to

 choose his own course. She was not bitter about the attack

 and to her credit showed no anger toward the barbarian at

 all.

    But she knew. Like Drizzt, she understood that the inner

 demons tormenting Wulfgar could not be excised with

 comforting words from friends, or even through the fury of

 battle. She had tried and had thought that she was making

 some progress, but in the end it had become painfully

 apparent to her that she could do nothing to help the man,

 that Wulfgar had to help himself.

    And so they went on, the four friends and Guenhwyvar,

 keeping their word to guide Camlaine's wagon out of the dale

 and along the south road.

    That night, Drizzt found Catti-brie on the eastern edge

 of the encampment, staring out into the blackness, and it was

 not hard for the drow to figure out what she was hoping to

 spot.

    "He will not return to us any time soon," Drizzt remarked

 quietly, moving to the woman's side.

    Catti-brie glanced at him only briefly, then turned her

 eyes back to the dark silhouettes of the mountains.

    There was nothing to see.

    "He chose wrong," the woman said softly after several

 long and silent moments had slipped past. "I'm knowin' that

 he has to help himself, but he could've done that among his

 friends, not out in the wilds,"

    "He did not want us to witness his most personal

 battles," Drizzt explained.

    "Ever was pride Wulfgar's greatest failing," Catti-brie

 quickly replied.

    "That is the way of his people, the way of his father,

 and his father's father before him," the ranger said. "The

 tundra barbarians do not accept weakness in others or in

 themselves, and Wulfgar believes that his inability to defeat

 mere memories is naught more than weakness."

    Catti-brie shook her head. She didn't have to speak the

 words aloud, for both she and Drizzt understood that the man

 was purely wrong in that belief, that, many times, the most

 powerful foes are those within.

    Drizzt reached up then and brushed a finger gently along

 the side of Catti-brie's nose, the area that had swelled

 badly from Wulfgar's punch. Catti-brie winced at first, but

 it was only because she had not expected the touch, and not

 from any real pain.

    "It's not so bad," she said.

    "Bruenor might not agree with you," the drow replied.

    That brought a smile to Catti-brie's face, for indeed, if

 Drizzt had brought Wulfgar back soon after the assault, it

 would have taken all of them to pull the vicious dwarf off

 the man. But even that had changed now, they both knew.

 Wulfgar had been as a son to Bruenor for many years, and the

 dwarf had been purely devastated, more so than any of the

 others, after the man's apparent death. Now, in the

 realization that Wulfgar's troubles had taken him from them

 again, Bruenor sorely missed the man, and surely would

 forgive him his strike against Catti-brie ... as long as the

 barbarian was properly contrite. They all would have forgiven

 Wulfgar, completely and without judgment, and would have

 helped him in any way they could to overcome his emotional

 obstacles. That was the tragedy of it all, for they had no

 help to offer that would be of any real value.

    Drizzt and Catti-brie sat together long into the night,

 staring at the empty tundra, the woman resting her head on

 the strong shoulder of the drow.

    The next two days and nights on the road proved

 peacefully uneventful, except that Drizzt more than once

 spotted the tracks of Regis's giant friend, apparently

 shadowing their movements. Still, the behemoth made no

 approach near the camp, so the drow did not become overly

 concerned. By the middle of the third day after Wulfgar's

 departure, they came in sight of the city of Luskan.

    "Your destination, Camlaine," the drow noted when the

 driver called out that he could see the distinctive skyline

 of Luskan, including the treelike structure that marked the

 city's wizard guild. "It has been our pleasure to travel with

 you."

    "And eat your fine food!" Regis added happily, drawing a

 laugh from everyone.

    "Perhaps if you are still in the southland when we

 return, and intent on heading back to the dale, we will

 accompany you again," Drizzt finished.

    "And glad we will all be for the company," the merchant

 replied, warmly clasping the drow's hand. "Farewell, wherever

 your road may take you, though I offer the parting as a

 courtesy only, for I do not doubt that you shall fare well

 indeed! Let the monsters take note of your passing and hide

 their heads low."

    The wagon rolled away, down the fairly smooth road to

 Luskan. The four friends watched it for a long time. "We

 could go in with him," Regis offered. "You are known well

 enough down there, I would guess," he added to the drow.

 "Your heritage should not bring us any problems..."

    Drizzt shook his head before the halfling even finished

 the thought. "I can indeed walk freely through Luskan," he

 said, "but my course, our course, is to the southeast. A

 long, long road lies ahead of us." "But in Luskan-" Regis

 started. "Rumblebelly's thinkin' that me boy might be in

 there," Bruenor bluntly cut in. From the dwarfs tone it

 seemed that he, too, considered following the merchant wagon.

    "He might indeed," Drizzt said. "And I hope that he is,

 for Luskan is not nearly as dangerous as the wilds of the

 Spine of the World."

    Bruenor and Regis looked at him curiously, for if he

 agreed with their reasoning, why weren't they following the

 merchant?

    "If Wulfgar's in Luskan, then better by far that we're

 turning away now," Catti-brie answered for Drizzt. "We're not

 wanting to find him now."

    "What're ye sayin'?" the flustered dwarf demanded.

    "Wulfgar walked away from us," Drizzt reminded. "Of his

 own accord. Do you believe that three days' time has changed

 anything?"

    "We're not for knowin' unless we ask," said Bruenor, but

 his tone was less argumentative, and the brutal truth of the

 situation began to sink in. Of course Bruenor, and all of

 them, wanted to find Wulfgar and wanted the man to recant his

 decision to leave. But of course that would not happen.

    "If we find him now, we'll only push him further from

 us," Catti-brie said.

    "He will grow angry at first because he will see us as

 meddling," Drizzt agreed. "And then, when his anger at last

 fades, if it ever does, he will be even more ashamed of his

 actions."

    Bruenor snorted and threw his hands up in defeat.

    They all took a last look at Luskan, hoping that Wulfgar

 was there, then they walked past the place. They headed

 southeast, flanking the city, then down the southern road

 with a week's travel before them to the city of Waterdeep.

 There they hoped to ride with a merchant ship to the south,

 to Baldur's Gate, and then up river to the city of Iriaebor.

 There they would take to the open road again, across several

 hundred miles of the Shining Plains to Caradoon and the

 Spirit Soaring. Regis had planned the journey, using maps and

 merchant sources back in Bryn Shander. The halfling had

 chosen Waterdeep as their best departure point over the

 closer Luskan because ships left Waterdeep's great harbor

 every day, with many traveling to Baldur's Gate. In truth, he

 wasn't sure, nor were any of the others, if this was the best

 course or not. The maps available in Icewind Dale were far

 from complete, and far from current. Drizzt and Catti-brie,

 the only two of the group to have traveled to the Spirit

 Soaring, had done so magically, with no understanding of the

 lay of the land.

    Still, despite the careful planning the halfling had

 done, each of them began doubting their ambitious travel

 plans throughout that day as they passed the city. Those

 plans had been formed out of a love for the road and

 adventure, a desire to take in the sights of their grand

 world, and a supreme confidence in their abilities to get

 through. Now, though, with Wulfgar's departure, that love and

 confidence had been severely shaken. Perhaps they would be

 better off going into Luskan to the notable wizards' guild

 and hiring a mage to magically contact Cadderly so that the

 powerful cleric might wind walk to them and finish this

 business quickly Or perhaps the Lords of Waterdeep, renowned

 throughout the lands for their dedication to justice and

 their power to carry it out, would take the crystal artifact

 off the companions' hands and, as Cadderly had vowed, find

 the means to destroy it.

    If any of the four had spoken aloud their mounting doubts

 about the journey that morning, the trip might have been

 abandoned. But because of their confusion over Wulfgar's

 departure, and because none of them wanted to admit that they

 could not focus on another mission while their dear friend

 was in danger, they held their tongues, sharing thoughts but

 not words. By the time the sun disappeared into the vast

 waters to the west, the city of Luskan and the hopes of

 finding Wulfgar were long out of sight.

    Regis's giant friend, though, continued to shadow their

 movements. Even as Bruenor, Catti-brie, and the halfling

 prepared the camp, Drizzt and Guenhwyvar came upon the huge

 tracks, leading down to a copse of trees less than three

 hundred yards from the bluff they had chosen as a sight. Now

 the giant's movements could no longer be dismissed as

 coincidence, for they had left the Spine of the World far

 behind, and few giants ever wandered into this civilized

 region where townsfolk would form militias and hunt them down

 whenever they were spotted.

    By the time Drizzt got back to camp, the halfling was

 fast asleep, several empty plates scattered about his

 bedroll. "It is time we confront our large shadow," the

 ranger explained to the other two as he moved over and gave

 Regis a good shake.

    "So ye're meanin' to let us in on yer battle plans this

 time," Bruenor replied sarcastically.

    "I hope there will be no battle," the drow answered. "To

 our knowledge, this particular giant has posed no threat to

 wagons rolling along the road in Icewind Dale, and so I find

 no reason to fight the creature. Better that we convince it

 to go back to its home without drawing sword."

    A sleepy-eyed Regis sat up and glanced around, then

 rolled back down under his covers-almost, for quick-handed

 Drizzt caught him halfway back to the comfort zone and

 roughly pulled him to his feet.

    "Not my watch!" the halfling complained.

    "You brought the giant to us, and so you shall convince

 him to leave," the drow replied.

    "The giant?" Regis asked, still not catching on to the

 meaning of it all.

    "Yer big friend," Bruenor explained. "He's followin' us,

 and we're thinking it's past time he goes home. Now, ye come

 along with yer tricky gem and make him leave, or we'll cut

 him down where he stands."

    Regis's expression showed that he didn't much like that

 prospect. The giant had served him well in the fight, and he

 had to admit a certain fondness for the big brute. He shook

 his head vigorously, trying to clear the cobwebs, then patted

 his full belly and retrieved his shoes. Even though he was

 moving as fast as he ever moved, the others were already out

 of the encampment by the time he was ready to follow.

    Drizzt was first into the copse, with Guenhwyvar flanking

 him. The drow stayed along the ground, picking a clear route

 away from dried leaves and snapping twigs, silent as a

 shadow, while Guenhwyvar sometimes padded along the ground

 and sometimes took to the secure low branches of thick trees.

 The giant was making no real effort to conceal itself and

 even had a fairly large fire going. The light guided the two

 companions and then the other three trailing them.

    Still a dozen yards away, Drizzt heard the rhythmic

 snoring, but then, barely two steps later he heard a loud

 rustle as the giant apparently woke up and jumped to his

 feet. Drizzt froze in place and scanned the area, seeking any

 scouts who might have alerted the behemoth, but there was

 nothing, no evident creatures and no noise at all save the

 continuous gentle hissing of the wind through the new leaves.

    Convinced that the giant was alone, the drow moved on,

 coming to a clearing. The fire and the behemoth, and it was

 indeed Junger, were plainly visible across the way. Out

 stepped Drizzt, and the giant hardly seemed surprised.

    "Strange that we should meet again," the drow remarked,

 resting his forearms comfortably across the hilts of his

 sheathed weapons and assuming an un-threatening posture. "I

 had thought you returned to your mountain home."

    "It bade me otherwise," Junger said, and again the drow

 was taken aback by the giant's command of language and

 sophisticated dialect.

    "It?" the drow asked.

    "Some calls cannot be unanswered, you understand," the

 giant replied.

    "Regis," Drizzt called back over his shoulder, and he

 heard the commotion as his three friends, all of them quiet

 by the standards of their respective races but clamorous

 indeed by the standards of the dark elf, moved through the

 forest behind him. Hardly turning his head, for he did not

 want to further alert the giant, Drizzt did take note of

 Guenhwyvar, padding quietly along a branch to the behemoth's

 left flank. She stopped within easy springing distance of the

 giant's head. "The halfling will bring it," Drizzt explained.

 "Perhaps then the call will be better understood and abated."

    The giant's big face screwed up with confusion. "The

 halfling?" he echoed skeptically.

    Bruenor crashed through the brush to stand beside the

 drow, then Catti-brie behind him, her deadly bow in hand, and

 finally, Regis, coming out complaining about a scratch one

 branch had just inflicted on his cherubic face.

    "It bade Junger to follow us," the drow explained,

 indicating the ruby pendant. "Show him a better course."

    Smiling ear to ear, Regis stepped forward and pulled out

 the chain and ruby pendant, starting the mesmerizing gem on a

 gentle swing.

    "Get back, little rodent," the giant boomed, averting his

 eyes from the halfling. "I'll tolerate none of your tricks

 this time!"

    "But it's calling to you," Regis protested, holding the

 gem out even further and flicking it with a finger of his

 free hand to set it spinning, its many facets catching the

 firelight in a dazzling display.

    "So it is," the giant replied. "Thus my business is not

 with you."

    "But I hold the gem."

    "Gem?" the giant echoed. "What do I care for any such

 meager treasures when measured against the promises of

 Crenshinibon?"

    That proclamation widened the eyes of the companions,

 except for Regis, who was so entranced by his own gem-

 twirling that the behemoth's words didn't even register with

 him. "Oh, but just look at how it spins!" he said happily.

 "It calls to you, its dearest friend, and bids you-" Regis

 ended with a squeaky "Hey!" as Bruenor rushed up and yanked

 him backward so forcefully that it took him right off the

 ground. He landed beside Drizzt and skittered backward in a

 futile attempt to hold his balance, but tripped anyway,

 tumbling hard into the brush.

    Junger came forward in a rush, reaching as if to slap the

 dwarf aside, but a silver-streaking arrow sizzled past his

 head, and the giant jolted upright, startled.

    "The next one takes yer face," Catti-brie promised.

    Bruenor eased back to join the woman and the drow.

    "You have foolishly followed an errant call," Drizzt said

 calmly, trying very hard to keep the situation under control.

 The ranger held no love for giants, to be sure, but he almost

 felt sympathy for this poor misguided fool. "Crenshinibon?

 What is Crenshinibon?"

    "Oh, you know well," the giant replied. "You above all

 others, dark elf. You are the possessor, but Crenshinibon

 rejects you and has selected me as your successor."

    "All that I truly know about you is your name, giant,"

 the drow gently replied. "Ever has your kind been at war with

 the smaller folk of the world, and yet I offer you this one

 chance to turn back for the Spine of the World, back to your

 home."

    "And so I shall," the giant replied with a chuckle,

 crossing his ankles calmly and leaning on a tree for support.

 "As soon as I have Crenshinibon." The cunning behemoth

 exploded into motion, tearing a thick limb from the tree and

 launching it at the friends, mostly to force Catti-brie and

 that nasty bow to dive aside.

    Junger strode forward and was stunned to find the drow

 already in swift motion, scimitars drawn, rushing between his

 legs and slicing away.

    Even as the giant turned to catch Drizzt as he rushed out

 behind him, Bruenor came in hard. The dwarf's axe chopped for

 the tendon at the back of the behemoth's ankle, and then,

 suddenly, six hundred pounds of panther crashed against the

 turning giant's shoulder and head, knocking him off-balance.

 He would have held his footing, except that Catti-brie drove

 an arrow into his lower back. Howling and spinning, Junger

 went down. Drizzt, Bruenor and Guenhwyvar all skittered out

 of harm's way.

    "Go home!" Drizzt called to the brute as he struggled to

 his hands and knees.

    With a defiant roar, the giant dived out at the drow,

 arms outstretched. He pulled his arms in fast, both hands

 suddenly bleeding from deep scimitar gashes, and then he

 jerked in pain as Catti-brie's next arrow drove into his hip.

    Drizzt started to call out again, wanting to reason with

 the brute, but Bruenor had heard enough. The dwarf rushed up

 the prone giant's back, quick-stepping to hold his balance as

 the creature tried to roll him off. The dwarf leaped over the

 giant's turning shoulder, coming down squarely atop his

 collarbone. Bruenor's axe came down fast, quicker to the

 strike than the giant's reaching hands. The axe cut deep into

 Junger's face.

    Huge hands clamped around Bruenor, but they had little

 strength left. Guenhwyvar leaped in and caught one of the

 giant's arms, bringing it down under her weight, pinning the

 hand with claws and teeth. Catti-brie blew the other arm from

 the dwarf with a perfectly aimed shot.

    Bruenor held his ground, leaning down on the embedded

 axe, and at last, the giant lay still.

    Regis came out of the brush and gave a kick at the branch

 the giant had thrown their way. "Worms in an apple!" he

 complained. "Why'd you kill him?"

    "Ye're seein' a choice?" Bruenor called back

 incredulously, then he braced himself and tugged his axe from

 the split head. "I'm not for talking to five thousand pounds

 of enemy."

    "I take no pleasure in that kill," Drizzt admitted. He

 wiped his blades on the fallen behemoth's tunic, then slid

 them into their sheaths. "Better for all of us that the giant

 simply went home."

    "And I could have convinced him to do so," Regis argued.

    "No," the drow answered. 'Tour pendant is powerful, I do

 not doubt, but it has no strength over one entranced by

 Crenshinibon." As he spoke, he opened his belt pouch and

 produced the artifact, the famed crystal shard.

    "Ye hold it out, and its call'll be all the louder,"

 Bruenor said grimly. "I'm thinkin' we might be finding a long

 road ahead of us."

    "Let it bring the monsters in," Catti-brie said. "It'll

 make our task in killing them all the easier."

    The coldness of her tone caught them all by surprise, but

 only for the moment it took them to look back at her and see

 the bruise on her face and remember the cause of her bad

 mood.

    "Ye notice that the damned thing's not working on any of

 us," the woman reasoned. "So it seems that any falling under

 its spell are deservin' what they'll find at our hands."

    "It does appear that Crenshinibon's power to corrupt

 extends only to those already of an evil weal," Drizzt

 agreed.

    "And so our road'll be a bit more exciting," Catti-brie

 said. She didn't bother to add that in this light, she wished

 Wulfgar was with them. She knew the others were no doubt

 thinking the exact same thing.

    They searched the giant's camp, then turned back to their

 own fire. Given the new realization that the crystal shard

 might be working against them, might be reaching out to any

 nearby monsters in an attempt to get free of the friends,

 they decided to double their watches from that point forward,

 two asleep and two awake.

    Regis was not pleased.

    

                            Chapter 9

                         GAINING APPROVAL

  

    From the shadows he watched the wizard walk slowly

 through the door. Other voices followed LaValle in from the

 corridor, but the wizard hardly acknowledged them, just shut

 the door and moved to his private stock liquor cabinet at the

 side of the audience room, lighting only a single candle atop

 it.

    Entreri clenched his hands eagerly, torn as to whether he

 should confront the wizard verbally or merely kill the man

 for not informing him of Dog Perry's attack.

    Cup in one hand, burning taper in the other, LaValle

 moved from the cabinet to a larger standing candelabra. The

 room brightened with each touch as another candle flared to

 life. Behind the occupied wizard, Entreri stepped into the

 open.

    His warrior senses put him on his guard immediately.

 Something-but what?-at the very edges of his consciousness

 alerted him. Perhaps it had to do with LaValle's comfortable

 demeanor or some barely perceptible extraneous noise.

    LaValle turned around then and jumped back just a bit

 upon seeing Entreri standing in the middle of the room. Again

 the assassin's perceptions nagged at him. The wizard didn't

 seem frightened or surprised enough.

    "Did you believe that Dog Perry would defeat me?" Entreri

 asked sarcastically.

    "Dog Perry?" LaValle came back. "I have not seen the man-

 "

    "Do not lie to me," Entreri calmly interrupted. "I have

 known you too long, LaValle, to believe such ignorance of

 you. You watched Dog Perry, without doubt, as you know all

 the movements of all the players."

    "Not all, obviously," the wizard replied dryly,

 indicating the uninvited man.

    Entreri wasn't so sure of that last claim, but he let it

 pass. "You agreed to warn me when Dog Perry came after me,"

 he said loudly. If the wizard had guild bodyguards nearby,

 let them hear of his duplicity. "Yet there he was, dagger in

 hand, with no prior warning from my friend LaValle."

    LaValle gave a great sigh and moved to the side, slumping

 into a chair. "I did indeed know," he admitted. "But I could

 not act upon that knowledge," he added quickly, for the

 assassin's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You must understand.

 All contact with you is forbidden."

    "Kelp-enwalled," Entreri remarked.

    LaValle held his hands out helplessly.

    "I also know that LaValle rarely adheres to such orders,"

 Entreri went on.

    "This one was different," came another voice. A slender

 man, well dressed and coifed, entered the room from the

 wizard's study.

    Entreri's muscles tensed; he had just checked out that

 room, along with the other two in the wizard's suite, and no

 one had been in there. Now he knew beyond doubt that he had

 been expected.

    "My guildmaster," LaValle explained. "Quentin Bodeau."

    Entreri didn't blink; he had already guessed that much.

    "This kelp-enwalling order came not from any particular

 guild, but from the three most prominent," Quentin Bodeau

 clarified. "To go against it would have meant eradication."

    "Any magical attempt I might have made would have been

 detected," LaValle tried to explain. He gave a chuckle,

 trying to break the tension. "I did not believe it would

 matter, in any case," he said. "I knew that Dog Perry would

 prove no real test for you."

    "If that is so, then why was he allowed to come after

 me?" Entreri asked, aiming the question at Bodeau.

    The guildmaster only shrugged and said, "Rarely have I

 been able to control all the movements of that one."

    "Let that bother you no more," Entreri replied grimly.

    Bodeau managed a weak smile. "You must appreciate our

 position ..." he started to say.

    "I am to believe the word of the man who ordered me

 murdered?" Entreri asked incredulously.

    "I did not-" Bodeau began to argue before being cut off

 by yet another voice from the wizard's study, a woman's

 voice.

    "If we believed that Quentin Bodeau, or any other ranking

 member of his guild knew of and approved of the attack, this

 guild house would be empty of living people."

    A tall, dark-haired woman came through the door, flanked

 by a muscular warrior with a curving black mustache and a

 more slender man, if it was a man, for Entreri could hardly

 make out any features under the cowl of the dark cloak. A

 pair of armored guards strode in behind the trio, and though

 the last one through the door shut it behind him, Entreri

 understood that there was likely another one about, probably

 another wizard. There was no way such a group could have been

 concealed in the other room, even from his casual glance,

 without magical aid. Besides, he knew, this group was too

 comfortable. Even if they were all skilled with weapons, they

 could not be confident that they alone could bring Entreri

 down.

    "I am Sharlotta Vespers," the woman said, her icy eyes

 flashing. "I give you Kadran Gordeon and Hand, my fellow

 lieutenants in the guild of Pasha Basadoni. Yes, he lives

 still and is glad to see you well."

    Entreri knew that to be a lie. If Basadoni were alive the

 guild would have contacted him much earlier, and in a less

 dangerous situation.

    "Are you affiliated?" Sharlotta asked.

    "I was not when I left Calimport, and I only recently

 came back to the city," the assassin answered.

    "Now you are affiliated," Sharlotta purred, and Entreri

 understood that he was in no position to deny her claim.

    So he would not be killed-not now, at least. He would not

 have to spend his nights looking over his shoulder for would-

 be assassins nor deal with the impertinent advances of fools

 like Dog Perry. The Basadoni Guild had claimed him as their

 own, and though he would be able to go and take jobs wherever

 he decided, as long as they did not involve the murder of

 anyone connected with Pasha Basadoni, his primary contacts

 would be Kadran Gordeon, whom he did not trust, and Hand.

    He should have been pleased at the turn of events, he

 knew, sitting quietly on the roof of the Copper Ante late

 that night. He couldn't have expected a better course.

    And yet, for some reason that he could hardly fathom,

 Entreri was not pleased in the least. He had his old life

 back, if he wanted it. With his skills, he knew he could soon

 return to the glories he had once known. And yet he now

 understood the limitations of those glories and knew that

 while he could easily re-ascend to the highest level of

 assassin in Calimport, that level would hardly be enough to

 satisfy the emptiness he felt within.

    He simply did not wish to go back to his old ways of

 murder for money. It was no bout of conscience-nothing like

 that!-but no thought of that former life sparked any

 excitement within the man.

    Ever the pragmatist, Entreri decided to play it one hour

 at a time. He went over the side of the roof, silent and

 sure-footed, picking his way down to the street, then entered

 through the front door.

    All eyes focused on him, but he hardly cared as he made

 his way across the common room to the door at the back. One

 halfling approached him there, as if to stop him, but a glare

 from Entreri backed the little one off, and the assassin

 pushed through.

    Again the sight of the enormously fat Dondon assaulted

 him profoundly.

    "Artemis!" Dondon said happily, though Entreri did note a

 bit of tension creeping into the halfling's voice, a common

 reaction whenever the assassin arrived unannounced at

 anyone's doorstep. "Come in, my friend. Sit and eat. Partake

 of good company."

    Entreri looked at the heaps of half-eaten sweets and at

 the two painted female halflings flanking the bloated wretch.

 He did sit down a safe distance away, though he moved none of

 the many platters in front of him narrowing his eyes as one

 of the female halflings tried to approach.

    "You must learn to relax and enjoy those fruits your work

 has provided," Dondon said. "You are back with Basadoni, so

 'tis said, and so you are free."

    Entreri noted that the irony of that statement was

 apparently lost on the halfling.

    "What good is all of your difficult and dangerous work if

 you cannot learn to relax and enjoy those pleasures your

 labors might buy for you?" Dondon asked.

    "How did it happen?" Entreri asked bluntly.

    Dondon stared at him, obvious confusion splayed on his

 sagging face.

    In explanation, Entreri looked all around, motioning to

 the plates, to the whores, and to Dondon's massive belly.

    Dondon's expression soured. "You know why I am in here,"

 he remarked quietly, all the bounce having left his tone.

    "I know why you came in here ... to hide . . . and I

 agree with that decision," Entreri replied. "But why?" Again

 he let the halfling follow his gaze to all the excess, plate

 by plate, whore by whore. "Why this?"

    "I choose to enjoy . . ." Dondon started, but Entreri

 would hear none of that.

    "If I could offer you back your old life, would you take

 it?" the assassin asked.

    Dondon stared at him blankly.

    "If I could change the word on the street so that Dondon

 could walk free of the Copper Ante, would Dondon be pleased?"

 Entreri pressed. "Or is Dondon pleased with the excuse?"

    "You speak in riddles."

    "I speak the truth," Entreri shot back, trying to look

 the halfling in the eye, though the sight of those drooping,

 sleepy lids surely revolted him. He could hardly believe his

 own level of anger in looking at Dondon. A part of him wanted

 to draw out his dagger and cut the wretch's heart out.

    But Artemis Entreri did not kill for passion, and he held

 that part in check.

    "Would you go back?" he asked slowly, emphasizing every

 word.

    Dondon didn't reply, didn't blink, but in the

 nonresponse, Entreri had his answer, the one he had feared

 the most.

    The room's door swung open, and Dwahvel entered. "Is

 there a problem in here, Master Entreri?" she asked sweetly.

    Entreri climbed to his feet and moved for the open door.

 "None for me," he replied, moving past.

    Dwahvel caught him by the arm-a dangerous move indeed!

 Fortunately for her, Entreri was too absorbed in his

 contemplation of Dondon to take affront.

    "About our deal," the female halfling remarked. "I may

 have need of your services."

    Entreri spent a long while considering those words,

 wondering why, for some reason, they so assaulted him. He had

 enough to think about already without having Dwahvel pressing

 her ridiculous needs upon him. "And what did you give to me

 in exchange for these services you so desire?" he asked.

    "Information," the halfling replied. "As we agreed." "You

 told me of the kelp-enwalling, hardly something I could not

 have discerned on my own," Entreri replied. "Other than that,

 Dwahvel was of little use to me, and that measure I surely

 can repay."

    The halfling's mouth opened as if she meant to protest,

 but Entreri just turned away and walked across the common

 room.

    "You may find my doors closed to you," Dwahvel called

 after him.

    In truth, Entreri hardly cared, for he didn't expect that

 he would desire to see wretched Dondon again. Still, more for

 effect than any practical gain, he did turn back to let his

 dangerous gaze settle over the halfling. "That would not be

 wise," was all he offered before sweeping out of the room and

 back onto the dark street, then back to the solitude of the

 rooftops.

    Up there, after many minutes of concentration, he came to

 understand why he so hated Dondon. Because he saw himself.

 No, he would never allow himself to become so bloated, for

 gluttony had never been one of his weaknesses, but what he

 saw was a creature beaten by the weight of life itself, a

 creature that had surrendered to despair. In Dondon's case it

 had been simple fear that had defeated him, that had locked

 him in a room and buried him in lust and gluttony.

    In Entreri's case, would it be simple apathy?

    He stayed on the roof all the night, but he did not find

 his answers.

    The knock came in the correct sequence, two raps, then

 three, then two again, so he knew even as he dragged himself

 out of his bed that it was the Basadoni Guild come calling.

 Normally Entreri would have taken precautions anyway-normally

 he would not have slept through half the day-but he did

 nothing now, didn't even retrieve his dagger. He just went to

 the door and, without even asking, pulled it open.

    He didn't recognize the man standing there, a young and

 nervous fellow with woolly black hair cut tight to his head,

 and dark, darting eyes.

    "From Kadran Gordeon," the man explained, handing Entreri

 a rolled parchment.

    "Hold!" Entreri said as the nervous young man turned and

 started away. The man's head spun back to regard the

 assassin, and Entreri noted one hand slipping under the folds

 of his light-colored robes, reaching for a weapon no doubt.

    "Where is Gordeon?" Entreri asked. "And why did he not

 deliver this to me personally?"

    "Please, good sir," the young man said in his thick

 Calimshite accent, bowing repeatedly. "I was only told to

 give that to you."

    "By Kadran Gordeon?" Entreri asked.

    "Yes," the man said, nodding wildly.

    Entreri shut his door, then heard the running footsteps

 of the relieved man outside retreating down the hall and then

 the stairs at full speed.

    He stood there, considering the parchment and the

 delivery. Gordeon hadn't even come to him personally, and he

 understood why. To do so would have been too much an open

 show of respect. The lieutenants of the guild feared him-not

 that he would kill them, but more that he would ascend to a

 rank above them. Now, by using this inconsequential

 messenger, Gordeon was trying to show Entreri the true

 pecking order, one that had him just above the bottom rung.

    With a resigned shake of his head, a helpless acceptance

 of the stupidity of it all, the assassin pulled the tie from

 the parchment and unrolled it. The orders were simple enough,

 giving a man's name and last known address, with instructions

 that he should be killed as soon as it could be arranged.

 That very night, if possible, the next day at the latest.

    At the bottom was a last notation that the targeted man

 had no known guild affiliation, nor was he in particularly

 good standing with city or merchant guardsmen, nor did he

 have any known powerful friends or relatives.

    Entreri considered that bit of news carefully. Either he

 was being set up against a very dangerous opponent, or, more

 likely, Gordeon had given him this pitifully easy hit to

 demean him, to lessen his credentials. In his former days in

 Calimport, Entreri's talents had been reserved for the

 killing of guildmasters or wizards, noblemen, and captains of

 the guard. Of course, if Gordeon and the other two

 lieutenants gave him any such difficult tasks and he proved

 successful, his standing would grow among the community and

 they would fear his quick ascension through the ranks.

    No matter, he decided.

    He took one last look at the listed address-a region of

 Calimport that he knew well-and went to retrieve his tools.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    He heard the children crying nearby, for the hovel had

 only two rooms, and those separated by only a thick drapery.

 A very homely young woman-Entreri noted as he spied on her

 from around the edge of the drapery-tended to the children.

 She begged them to settle down and be quiet, threatening that

 their father would soon be home.

    She came out of the back room a moment later, oblivious

 to the assassin as he crouched behind another curtain under a

 side window. Entreri cut a small hole in the drape and

 watched her movements as she went about her work. Everything

 was brisk and efficient; she was on edge, he knew.

    The door, yet another drape, pushed aside and a young,

 skinny man entered, his face appearing haggard, eyes sunken

 back in his skull, several days of beard on his chin and

 cheeks.

    "Did you find it?" the woman asked sharply.

    The man shook his head, and it seemed to Entreri that his

 eyes drooped just a bit more.

    "I begged you not to work with them!" the woman scolded.

 "I knew that no good-"

    She stopped short as his eyes widened in horror. He saw,

 looking over her shoulder, the assassin emerging from behind

 the draperies. He turned as if to flee, but the woman looked

 back and cried out.

    The man froze in place; he would not leave her.

    Entreri watched it all calmly. Had the man continued his

 retreat, the assassin would have cut him down with a dagger

 throw before he ever got outside.

    "Not my family," the man begged, turning back and walking

 toward Entreri, his hands out wide, palms open. "And not

 here."

    "You know why I have come?" the assassin asked.

    The woman began to cry, muttering for mercy, but her

 husband grabbed her gently but firmly and pulled her back,

 angling her for the children's room, then pushing her along.

    "It was not my fault," the man said quietly when she was

 gone. "I begged Kadran Gordeon. I told him that I would

 somehow find the money."

    The old Artemis Entreri would not have been intrigued at

 that point. The old Artemis Entreri would never even have

 listened to the words. The old Artemis Entreri would have

 just finished the task and walked out. But now he found that

 he was interested, mildly, and, as he had no other pressing

 business, he was in no hurry to finish.

    "I will cause no trouble for you if you promise that you

 will not hurt my family," the man said.

    "You believe that you could me cause trouble?" Entreri

 asked.

    The helpless, pitiful man shook his head. "Please," he

 begged. "I only wished to show them a better life. I agreed

 to, even welcomed, the job of moving money from Docker's

 Street to the drop only because in those easy tasks I earned

 more than a month of labor can bring me in honest work."

    Entreri had heard it all before, of course. So many

 times, fools-camels, they were called-joined into a guild,

 performing delivery tasks for what seemed to the simple

 peasants huge amounts of money. The guilds only hired the

 camels so that rival guilds would not know who was

 transporting the money. Eventually, though, the other guilds

 would figure out the routes and the camels, and would steal

 the shipment. Then the poor camels, if they survived the

 ambush, would be quickly eliminated by the guild that had

 hired them.

    "You understood the danger of the company you kept,"

 Entreri remarked.

    The man nodded. "Only a few deliveries," he replied.

 "Only a few, and then I would quit."

    Entreri laughed and shook his head, considering the

 fool's absurd plan. One could not "quit" as a camel. Anyone

 accepting the position would immediately learn too much to

 ever be allowed out of the guild. There were only two

 possibilities: first, that the camel would perform well

 enough and be lucky enough to earn a higher, more permanent

 position within the guild structure, and second, that the man

 or woman (for women were often used) would be slain in a raid

 or subsequently killed by the hiring guild.

    "I beg of you, do not do it here," the man said at

 length. "Not where my wife will hear my last cries, not where

 my sons will find me dead."

    Bitter bile found its way into the back of Entreri's

 throat. Never had he been so disgusted, never had he seen a

 more pitiful human being. He looked around again at the

 hovel, the rags posing as doors, as walls. There was a single

 plate, probably used for eating by the entire family, sitting

 on the single old bench in the room.

    "How much do you owe?" he asked, and though he could

 hardly believe the words as he spoke them, he knew that he

 would not be able to bring himself to kill this wretch.

    The man looked at him curiously. "A king's treasure," he

 said. "Near to thirty gold pieces."

    Entreri nodded, then pulled a pouch from his belt, this

 one hidden around the back under his dark cloak. He felt the

 weight as he pulled it free and knew that it held at least

 fifty gold pieces, but he tossed it to the man anyway.

    The stunned man caught it and stared at it so intently

 that Entreri feared his eyeballs would simply fall out of

 their sockets. Then he looked back to the assassin, his

 emotions too twisted and turned about for him to have any

 revealing expression at all on his face.

    "On your word that you will not deal with any guilds

 again once your debt is paid," Entreri said. Tour wife and

 children deserve better."

    The man started to reply, then fell to his knees and

 started to bow before his savior. Entreri turned about and

 swept angrily from the hovel, out into the dirty street.

    He heard the man's calls following him, cries of thanks

 and mercy. In truth, and Entreri knew it, there had been no

 mercy in his actions. He cared nothing for the man or his

 ugly wife and undoubtedly ugly children. But still he could

 not kill this pitiful wretch, though he figured he would

 probably be doing the man a great service if he did put him

 out of his obvious misery. No, Entreri would not give Kadran

 Gordeon the satisfaction of putting him through such a

 dishonorable murder. A camel like this should be work for

 first year guild members, twelve-year-olds, perhaps, and for

 Kadran to give such an assignment to one of Entreri's

 reputation was surely a tremendous insult.

    He would not play along.

    He stormed down the street to his room at the inn where

 he collected all his things and set out at once, finally

 coming to the door of the Copper Ante. He had thought to

 merely press in, for no better reason than to show Dwahvel

 how ridiculous her threat to shut him out had been. But then

 he reconsidered and turned away, in no mood for any dealings

 with Dwahvel, in no mood for any dealings with anybody.

    He found a small, nondescript tavern across town and took

 a room. Likely he was on the grounds of another guild, and if

 they found out who he was and who he was affiliated with

 there might be trouble.

    He didn't care.

    A day slipped by unremarkably, but that did little to put

 Entreri at ease. Much was happening, he knew, and all of it

 in quiet shadows. He had the wherewithal and understanding of

 those shadows to go out and discern much, but he hadn't the

 ambition to do so. He was in a mood to simply let things fall

 as they might.

    He went down to the common room of the little inn that

 second night, taking his meal to an empty corner, eating

 alone and hearing nothing of the several conversations going

 on about the place. He did note the entrance of one

 character, though, a halfling, and the little folk were not

 common in this region of the city. Soon enough the halfling

 found him, taking a seat on the long bench opposite the table

 from the assassin.

    "Good evening to you, fine sir," the little one said.

 "And how do you find your meal?"

    Entreri studied the halfling, understanding that this one

 held no interest at all in his food. He looked for a weapon

 on the halfling, though he doubted that Dwahvel would ever be

 so bold as to move against him.

    "Might I taste it?" the halfling said rather loudly,

 coming forward over the table.

    Entreri, picking up the cues, held a spoon of the gruel

 up but did not extend his arm, allowing the halfling to

 inconspicuously move even closer.

    "I've come from Dwahvel," the little one said as he moved

 in. "The Basadoni Guild seeks you, and they are in a foul

 mood. They know where you are and have received permission

 from the Rakers to come and collect you. Expect them this

 very night." The halfling took the bite as he finished, then

 moved back across the table, rubbing his belly.

    "Tell Dwahvel that now I am in her debt," Entreri

 remarked. The little one, with a slight nod, moved back

 across the room and ordered a bowl of gruel. He took up a

 conversation with the innkeeper while he was waiting for it

 and ate it right at the bar, leaving Entreri to his thoughts.

    He could flee, the assassin realized, but his heart was

 not in such a course. No, he decided, let them come and let

 this be done. He didn't think they meant to kill him in any

 case. He finished his meal and went back to his room to

 consider his options. First, he pulled a board from the inner

 wall, and in the cubby space between that and the outer wall,

 reaching down to a beam well below the floor in his room, he

 placed his fabulous jeweled dagger and many of his coins.

 Then he carefully replaced the board and replaced the dagger

 on his belt with another from his pack, one that somewhat

 resembled his signature dagger but without the powerful

 enchantment. Then, more for appearances than as any

 deterrent, he wired a basic dart trap about his door and

 moved across the room, settling into the one chair in the

 place. He took out some dice and began throwing them on the

 small night table beside the chair, making up games and

 passing the hours.

    It was late indeed when he heard the first footsteps

 coming up the stairs-a man obviously trying to be stealthy

 but making more noise than the skilled Entreri would make

 even if he were walking normally. Entreri listened more

 carefully as the walking ceased, and he caught the scrape of

 a thin slice of metal moving about the crack between the door

 and the jamb. A fairly skilled thief could get through his

 impromptu trap in a matter of a couple of minutes, he knew,

 so he put his hands behind his head and leaned back against

 the wall.

    All the noise stopped, a long and uncomfortable silence.

    Entreri sniffed the air; something was burning. For a

 moment, he thought they might be razing the building around

 him, but then he recognized the smell, that of burning

 leather, and as he shifted to look down at his own belt he

 felt a sharp pain on his collarbone. The chain of a necklace

 he wore-one that held several lock picks cunningly designed

 as ornaments-had slipped off his shirt and onto his bare

 skin.

    Only then did the assassin understand that all of his

 metallic items had grown red hot.

    Entreri jumped up and tore the necklace from his neck,

 then deftly, with a twist of his wrist, dropped his belt and

 the heated dagger to the floor.

    The door burst in, a Basadoni soldier rolling to either

 side and a third man, crossbow leveled, rushing between them.

    He didn't fire, though, nor did the others, their swords

 in hand, charge in.

    Kadran Gordeon walked in behind the bowman.

    "A simple knock would have proven as effective," Entreri

 said dryly, looking down at his glowing equipment. The dagger

 caused the wood of the floor to send up a trail of black

 smoke.

    In response, Gordeon threw a coin at Entreri's feet, a

 strange golden coin imprinted with the unicorn head emblem on

 the side showing to the assassin.

    Entreri looked up at Gordeon and merely shrugged.

    "The camel was to be killed," Gordeon said.

    "He was not worth the effort."

    "And that is for you to decide?" the Basadoni lieutenant

 asked incredulously.

    "A minor decision, compared to what I once-"

    "Ah!" Gordeon interrupted dramatically. "Therein lies the

 flaw, Master Entreri. What you once knew, or did, or were

 told to do, is irrelevant, you see. You are no guildmaster,

 no lieutenant, not even a full soldier as of yet, and I doubt

 that ever you will be! You lost your nerve-as I thought you

 would. You are only gaining approval, and if you survive that

 time, perhaps, just perhaps, you will find your way back into

 complete acceptance within the guild."

    "Gaining approval?' Entreri echoed with a laugh. "Yours?"

    "Take him!" Gordeon instructed the two soldiers who had

 come in first. As they moved cautiously for the assassin

 Gordeon added, "The man you tried to save was executed, as

 were his wife and children."

    Entreri hardly heard the words and hardly cared anyway,

 though he knew that Gordeon had ordered the extended

 execution merely to throw some pain his way. Now he had a

 bigger dilemma. Should he allow Gordeon to take him back to

 the guild, where he would no doubt be physically punished and

 then released?

    No, he would not suffer such treatment by this man or any

 other. The muscles in his legs, so finely honed, tensed as

 the two approached, though Entreri seemed perfectly at ease,

 even held his empty arms out in an unthreatening posture.

    The men, swords in hand, came in at his sides, reaching

 for those arms while the third soldier kept his crossbow

 steady, aimed at the assassin's heart.

    Up into the air went Entreri, a great vertical spring,

 tucking his legs under him and then kicking out to the sides

 before the startled soldiers could react, connecting squarely

 on the faces of both the approaching men and sending them

 flying away. He did catch the one on his right as he landed,

 and pulled the man in quickly, just in time to serve as a

 shield for the firing crossbow. Then he tossed the groaning

 man to the ground.

    "First mistake," he said to Gordeon as the lieutenant

 drew out a splendid-looking sabre. Off to the side the other

 kicked soldier climbed back to his feet, but the one on the

 floor in front of Entreri, a crossbow quarrel deep into his

 back, wasn't moving. The crossbowman worked hard on the

 crank, loading another bolt, but even more disturbing for

 Entreri was the fact that there was obviously a wizard

 nearby.

    "Stay back," Gordeon ordered the man to the side. "I will

 finish this one."

    "To make your reputation?" Entreri asked. "But I have no

 weapon. How will that sound on the streets of Calimport?"

    "After you are dead we will place a weapon in your hand,"

 Gordeon said with a wicked grin. "My men will insist that it

 was a fair fight."

    "Second mistake," Entreri said under his breath, for

 indeed, it was a fairer fight than the skilled Kadran Gordeon

 could ever understand. The Basadoni lieutenant came in with a

 measured thrust, straight ahead, and Entreri slapped his

 forearm out to intercept, purposely missing the parry but

 skittering backward out of reach at the same time. Gordeon

 circle, and so did Entreri. Then the assassin came ahead in a

 short lunge and was forced back with a slice of the sabre,

 Gordeon taking care to allow no openings.

    But Entreri had no intention of following through his

 movement anyway. He had only begun it so that he could

 slightly alter the angle of the circling, putting him in line

 for his next strike.

    On came Gordeon, and Entreri leaped back. When Gordeon

 kept coming, the assassin went ahead in a short burst,

 forcing him into a cunning and dangerous parrying maneuver.

 But again, Entreri didn't follow through. He just fell back

 to the appropriate spot and, to the surprise of all in the

 room, stamped his foot hard on the floor.

    "What?" Gordeon asked, shaking his head and looking

 about, for he didn't keep his eyes down at that stamping

 foot, didn't see the shock of the stamp lift the still-

 glowing necklace from the floor so that Entreri could hook it

 about his toe.

    A moment later Gordeon came on hard, this time looking

 for the kill. Out snapped Entreri's foot, launching the

 necklace at the lieutenant's face. To his credit, the swift-

 handed Gordeon snapped his free hand across and caught the

 necklace-as Entreri had expected-but then how he howled, the

 glowing chain enwrapping his bare hand and digging a fiery

 line across his flesh.

    Entreri was there in the blink of an eye. He slapped the

 lieutenant's sword arm out wide. Balling both fists, middle

 knuckles extended forward, he drove his knuckles

 simultaneously into the man's temples. Clearly dazed, his

 eyes glossed over, Gordeon's hands slipped to his sides and

 Entreri snapped his forehead right into the man's face. He

 caught Gordeon as he fell back and spun him about, then

 reached through his legs and caught him by one wrist. With a

 subtle turn to put Gordeon in line with the crossbowman,

 Entreri pulled hard, through and up, flipping Gordeon right

 into the startled soldier. The flipped man knocked the

 crossbow hard enough to dislodge the bolt.

    The remaining swordsman came in hard from the side, but

 he was not a skilled fighter, even by Kadran Gordeon's

 standards. Entreri easily backed and dodged his awkward, too-

 far-ahead thrust, then stepped in quickly, before the man

 could retract and ready the blade. Reaching down and around

 to catch his sword arm by the wrist, Entreri lifted hard and

 stepped under that wrist, twisting the arm painfully and

 stealing the strength from it.

    The man came ahead, thinking to grab on for dear life

 with his free hand. Entreri's palm slapped against the back

 of his twisted sword hand quicker than he could even

 comprehend, then bent the hand down low back over the wrist,

 stealing all strength and sending a wave of pain through the

 man. A simple slide of the hand had the sword free in

 Entreri's grasp, and a reversal of grip and deft twist

 brought it in line.

    Entreri retracted his hand, stabbing the blade out and up

 behind him into the belly and up into the lungs of the

 hapless soldier.

    Moving quickly, not even bothering to pull the sword back

 out, he spun on the man, thinking to throw him, too, at the

 crossbowman. And indeed that stubborn archer was once more

 setting the bolt in place. But a far more dangerous foe

 appeared, the unseen wizard, rushing down the hallway, robes

 flapping, across the door. Entreri saw the man lift something

 slender-a wand, he supposed-but then all he saw was a tumble

 of arms and legs as the skewered swordsman crashed into the

 wizard and both went flying away.

    "Have I yet gained your approval?" Entreri yelled at the

 still dazed Gordeon, but he was moving even as he spoke, for

 the crossbowman had him dead and the wizard was fast

 regaining his footing. He felt the terrible flash of pain as

 a quarrel dug through his side, but he gritted his teeth and

 growled away the pain, putting his arms in front of his face

 and tucking his legs up defensively as he crashed through the

 wooden-latticed window, soaring down the ten feet to the

 street. He turned his legs as he hit, throwing himself into a

 sidelong roll, and then another to absorb the shock of the

 fall. He was up and running, not surprised at all when

 another crossbow quarrel, fired from a completely different

 direction, embedded itself into the wall right beside him.

    All the area erupted with movement as Basadoni soldiers

 came out of every conceivable hiding place.

    Entreri sprinted down one alley, leaped right over a huge

 man bending low in an attempt to tackle him at the waist,

 then cut fast around a building. Up to the roof he went,

 quick as a cat, then across, leaping another alley to another

 roof, and so on.

    He went down the main street, for he knew that his

 pursuers were expecting him to drop into an alley. He went up

 fast on the side of one wall, expertly setting himself there,

 arms and legs splayed wide to find tentative holds and to

 blend with the contours of the building.

    Cries of "Find him!" echoed all about, and many soldiers

 ran right below his perch, but those cries diminished as the

 night wore on. Fortunately so for Entreri, who, though he was

 not losing much blood outwardly, understood that his wound

 was serious, perhaps even mortal. Finally he was able to

 slide down from his perch, hardly finding the remaining

 strength to even stand. He put a hand to his side and felt

 the warm blood, thick in the folds of his cloak, and felt,

 too, the very back edge of the deeply embedded quarrel.

    He could hardly draw breath now. He knew what that meant.

    Luck was with him when he got back to the inn, for the

 sun had not yet come up, and though there were obviously

 Basadoni soldiers within the place, few were about the

 immediate area. Entreri found the window of his room easily

 enough from the broken wood on the ground and calculated the

 height of his hidden store. He had to be quiet, for he heard

 voices, Gordeon's among them, from within his room. Up he

 went, finding a secure perch, trying hard not to groan,

 though in truth he wanted to scream from the pain.

    He worked the old, weather-beaten wood slowly and quietly

 until he could pull enough away to retrieve his dagger and

 small pouch.

    "He had to have some magic about him!" he heard Gordeon

 scream. "Cast your detection again!"

    "There is no magic, Master Gordeon," came another voice,

 the wizard's obviously. "If he had any, then likely he sold

 it or gave it away before he ever came to this place."

    Despite his agony, Entreri managed a smile as he heard

 Gordeon's subsequent growl and kick. No magic indeed, because

 they had searched in his room only and not the wall of the

 room below.

    Dagger in hand, the assassin made his way along the

 still-quiet streets. He hoped to find a Basadoni soldier

 about, one deserving his wrath, but in truth he doubted he

 could even muster the strength to beat a novice fighter. What

 he found instead was a pair of drunks, laying against the

 side of a building, one sleeping, the other talking to

 himself.

    Silent as death, the assassin stalked in. His jeweled

 dagger possessed a particularly useful magic, for it could

 steal the life of a victim and give that energy to its

 wielder.

    Entreri took the talking drunk first, and when he was

 finished, feeling so much stronger, he bit down hard on a

 fold of his cloak and yanked the crossbow bolt from his side,

 nearly fainting as waves of agony assaulted him.

    He steadied himself, though, and fell over the sleeping

 drunk.

    He walked out of the alley soon after, showing no signs

 that he had been so badly wounded. He felt strong again and

 almost hoped he would find Kadran Gordeon still in the area.

    But the fight had only begun, he knew, and despite his

 supreme skills, he remembered well the extent of the Basadoni

 Guild and understood that he was sorely overmatched.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    They had watched those intent on killing him enter the

 inn. They had watched him come crashing through the window in

 full flight, then run on into the shadows. With eyes superior

 to those of the Basadoni soldiers, they had spotted him

 splayed on the wall and silently applauded his stealthy

 trick. And now, with some measure of relief and many nods

 that their leader had chosen wisely, they watched him exit

 the alley. And even he, Artemis Entreri, assassin of

 assassins, had no idea they were about.

    

                            Chapter 10

                          UNEXPECTED AND

                       UNSATISFYING VENGEANCE

  

    Wulfgar moved along the foothills of the Spine of the

 World easily and swiftly, sincerely hoping that some monster

 would find him and attack that he might release the

 frustrating rage boiling within him. On several occasions he

 found tracks, and he followed them, but he was no ranger.

 Though he could survive well enough in the harsh climate, his

 tracking skills were nowhere near as strong as those of his

 drow friend.

    Nor was his sense of direction. When he came over one

 ridge the very next day, he was surprised indeed to see that

 he had cut diagonally right through the corner of the great

 mountain range, for from this high vantage point all the

 southland seemed to spread wide before him. Wulfgar looked

 back to the mountains, thinking that his chances for finding

 a fight would be much better in there, but inevitably his

 gaze swung back to the open fields, the dark clusters of

 forest, and the many long and unknown roads. He felt a pull

 in his heart, a longing for distance and open expanses, a

 desire to break the bounds of his boxed-in life in Icewind

 Dale. Perhaps out there he might find new experiences that

 would allow him to dismiss all the tumult of images that

 whirled in his thoughts. Perhaps divorced from the everyday

 familiar routines he could also find distance from the

 horrors of his memories of the Abyss.

    Nodding to himself, Wulfgar started down the steep

 southern expanse. He found another set of tracks-orc, most

 likely-a couple hours later, but this time he passed them by.

 He was out of the mountains as the sun disappeared below the

 western horizon. He stood watching the sunset. Great orange

 and red flames gathered in the bellies of dark clouds,

 filling the western sky with brilliant striped patterns. The

 occasional twinkling star became visible against the pale

 blue wherever the clouds broke apart. He held that pose as

 all color faded, as darkness crept across the fields and the

 sky, broken clouds rushing past overhead. Stars seemed to

 blink on and off. This was the moment of renewal, Wulfgar

 decided. This was the moment of his rebirth, a clean

 beginning for a man alone in the world, a man determined to

 focus on the present and not the past, determined to let the

 future sort itself out.

    He moved away from the mountains and camped under the

 spreading boughs of a fir tree. Despite his determination,

 his nightmares found him there.

    Still, the next day Wulfgar's stride was long and swift,

 covering the miles, following the wind or a bird's flight or

 the bank of a spring creek.

    He found plenty of game and plenty of berries. Each

 passing day he felt as though his stride was less shackled by

 his past, and each night the terrible dreams seemed to grab a

 him a bit less.

    But then one day he came upon a curious totem, a low pole

 set in the ground with its top carved to resemble the

 pegasus, the winged horse, and suddenly Wulfgar found himself

 vaulted back into a very distinct memory, an incident that

 had occurred many years before when he was on the road with

 Drizzt, Bruenor, and Regis seeking the dwarf's ancestral home

 of Mithral Hall. Part of him wanted to turn away from that

 totem, to run far from this place, but one particular memory,

 a vow of vengeance, nagged at him. Hardly registering the

 movements, Wulfgar found a recent trail and followed it, soon

 coming to a hillock, and from the top of that bluff he spied

 the encampment, a cluster of deerskin tents with people, tall

 and strong and dark-haired, moving all about.

    "Sky Ponies," Wulfgar whispered, remembering well the

 barbarian tribe that had come into a battle he and his

 friends had fought against an orc group. After the orcs had

 been cut down, Wulfgar, Bruenor, and Regis had been taken

 prisoner. They had been treated fairly well, and Wulfgar had

 been offered a challenge of strength, which he easily won,

 against the son of the chieftain. And then, in honorable

 barbarian tradition, Wulfgar had been offered a place among

 the tribesmen. Unfortunately, for a test of loyalty Wulfgar

 had been asked to slay Regis, and that he could never do.

 With Drizzt's help, the friends had escaped, but then the

 shaman, Valric High Eye, had used evil magic to transform

 Torlin, the chieftain's son, into a hideous ghost spirit.

    They defeated that spirit. When honorable Torlin's

 deformed, broken body lay at his feet, Wulfgar, son of

 Beornegar, had vowed vengeance against Valric High Eye.

    The barbarian felt the clamminess in his strong hands-

 hands subconsciously wringing about the handle of his

 powerful warhammer. He squinted into the distance, staring

 hard at the encampment, and discerned a skinny, agitated form

 that might have been Valric skipping past one tent.

    Valric might not even still be alive, Wulfgar reminded

 himself, for the shaman had been very old those years ago.

 Again a large part of Wulfgar wanted to sprint down the other

 side of the hillock, to run far away from this encounter and

 any other that would remind him of his past.

    The image of Torlin's broken, mutilated body, half man,

 half winged horse, stayed clear in his thoughts, though, and

 he could not turn away.

    Within the hour, he stared at the encampment from a much

 closer perspective, close enough to see the individuals.

    Close enough to understand that the Sky Ponies had fallen

 on hard times. And into difficult battles, he realized, for

 many wounded sat about the camp, and the overall numbers of

 tents and folk seemed much reduced from what he remembered.

 Most of the folk in camp were women or very old or very

 young. A string of more than two-score poles to the south

 helped to clear up the mystery, for upon them were set the

 heads of orcs, the occasional carrion bird fluttering down to

 find a perch in scraggly hair, poking down to find a feast of

 an eyeball or the side of a nostril.

    The sight of the Sky Ponies so obviously diminished

 pained Wulfgar greatly, for though he had sworn vengeance on

 their shaman, he knew them to be an honorable people, much

 like his own in tradition and practice. He thought then that

 he should leave them, but even as he turned to go, one tent

 flap at the corner of his line of vision pushed open and out

 hopped a skinny man, ancient but full of energy, wearing

 white robes that feathered out like the wings of a bird

 whenever he raised his arms, and even more telling, an eye

 patch set with a huge emerald. Barbarians lowered their gazes

 wherever he passed; one child even rushed up to him and

 kissed the back of his hand.

    "Valric," Wulfgar muttered, for there could be no

 mistaking the shaman.

    Wulfgar came up from the grass in a steady, determined

 walk, Aegis-fang swinging at the end of one arm. The mere

 fact that he broke through the camp's perimeter without being

 assaulted showed him just how disorganized and decimated this

 tribe truly was, for no barbarian tribe would ever be caught

 so off guard.

    Yet Wulfgar had passed the first tents, had moved close

 enough to Valric High Eye for the shaman to see him and stare

 at him incredulously before the first warrior, a tall, older

 man, strong but very lean, moved to block him.

    The warrior came in swinging, not talking, launching a

 sidelong sweep with a heavy club, but Wulfgar, quicker than

 the man could anticipate, stepped ahead and caught the club

 in his free hand before it could gain too much momentum, and

 then, with strength beyond anything the man had ever

 imagined, turned his wrist and pulled the weapon free,

 tossing it far to the side. The warrior howled and charged

 right in, but Wulfgar got his arm across between himself and

 the man. With a mighty sweep of his arm, Wulfgar sent the man

 stumbling away.

    All the camp's warriors, not nearly as many as Wulfgar

 remembered from the Sky Ponies, were out then, flanking

 Valric, forming a semicircle from the shaman out to the sides

 of the huge intruder. Wulfgar did turn his gaze from the

 hated Valric long enough to scrutinize the group, long enough

 to take note that these were not strong men of prime warrior

 age. They were too young or too old. The Sky Ponies, he

 understood, had recently fought a tremendous battle and had

 not fared well.

    "Who are you who comes uninvited?" asked one man, large

 and strong but very old.

    Wulfgar looked hard at the speaker, at the keen set of

 his eyes, the peppered gray hair in a tousled mop, thick

 indeed for one his age, at the firm and proud set of his jaw.

 He reminded Wulfgar of another Sky Pony he had once met, an

 honorable and brave warrior, and that, combined with the fact

 that the man had spoken above all others, and even before

 Valric, confirmed Wulfgar's suspicions.

    "Father of Torlin," he said, and gave a bow.

    The man's eyes widened with surprise. He seemed as if he

 wanted to respond but could find no words.

    "Jerek Wolf Slayer!" Valric shrieked. "Chieftain of the

 Sky Ponies. Who are you who comes uninvited? Who are you who

 speaks of Jerek's long-lost son?"

    "Lost?" Wulfgar echoed skeptically.

    "Taken by the gods," Valric replied, waving his feathered

 arms. "A hunting quest, turned to vision quest."

    A wry smile made its way onto Wulfgar's face as he came

 to comprehend the tremendous, decade-old lie. Torlin, mutated

 into a ghastly and ghostly creature had been sent out by

 Valric to hunt Wulfgar and his companions and had died

 horribly on the field at their hands. But Valric, likely not

 wanting to face Jerek with the horrid news, had somehow

 manipulated the truth, had concocted a story that would keep

 Jerek in check. A hunting quest or a vision quest, both god-

 inspired, might last years, even decades.

    Wulfgar realized that he had to handle this delicately

 now, for any wrong or too-harsh statements might provoke the

 wrath of Jerek.

    "The hunting quest did not last," he said. "For the gods,

 our gods, recognized the wrongness of it."

    Valric's eyes widened indeed, for the first time showing

 some measure of recognition. "Who are you?" he asked again, a

 hint of a tremor edging his voice.

    "Do you not remember, Valric High Eye?" Wulfgar asked,

 striding forward, and his movement caused those flanking the

 shaman to step forward as well. "Have the Sky Ponies so soon

 forgotten the face of Wulfgar, son of Beornegar?"

    Valric tilted his head, his expression showing that

 Wulfgar had hit a chord of recognition there, but only

 vaguely.

    "Have the Sky Ponies so soon forgotten the northerner

 they invited to join their ranks, the northerner who traveled

 with a dwarf, and a halfling, and," he paused, knowing that

 his next words would bring complete recognition, "a black-

 skinned elf?"

    Valric's eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets. "You!"

 he said, poking his trembling finger into the air.

    The mention of the drow, probably the only dark elf any

 of these barbarians had ever seen, sparked the memories of

 many others. Whispered conversations erupted, and many

 barbarians grasped their weapons tightly, awaiting only a

 single word to begin their attack and slaughter of the

 intruder.

    Wulfgar calmly held his ground. "I am Wulfgar, son of

 Beornegar," he repeated firmly, focusing his gaze on Jerek

 Wolf Slayer. "No enemy of the Sky Ponies. Distant kin to your

 people and to your ways. I have returned, as I vowed I would,

 when I saw dead Torlin on the field."

    "Dead Torlin?" many voices from warriors and those

 huddled behind them echoed.

    "My friends and I did not come as enemies of the Sky

 Ponies," Wulfgar went on, using what he expected to be the

 last few seconds of dialogue. "Indeed we fought beside you

 against a common foe and won the day."

    "You refused us!" Valric screamed. "You insulted my

 people!"

    "What do you know of my son?" Jerek demanded, pushing the

 shaman aside and stepping forward.

    "I know that Valric quested him with the spirit of the

 Sky Pony to destroy us," Wulfgar said.

    "You admit this, and yet you walk openly into our

 encampment?" Jerek asked.

    "I know that your god was not with Torlin on that hunt,

 for we defeated the creature he had become."

    "Kill him!" Valric screamed. "As we destroyed the orcs

 that came upon us in the dark of night, so shall we destroy

 the enemy that walks into our camp this day!"

    "Hold!" shouted Jerek, throwing his arms out wide. Not a

 Sky Pony took a step forward, though they seemed eager now,

 like a pack of hunting dogs straining against their leashes.

    Jerek stepped out, walking to stand before Wulfgar.

    Wulfgar locked his gaze with the man, but not before he

 glanced past Jerek to Valric, the shaman fumbling with a

 leather pouch-a sacred bundle of mystical and magical

 components-at his side.

    "My son is dead?" Jerek, barely a foot from Wulfgar,

 asked.

    "Your god was not with him," Wulfgar replied. "For his

 cause, Valric's cause, was not just."

    He knew before he ever finished that his roundabout

 manner of telling Jerek had done little to calm the man, that

 the overriding information, that his son was indeed dead, was

 too powerful and painful for any explanation or

 justification. With a roar, the chieftain came at Wulfgar but

 the younger barbarian was ready, lifting his arm high to

 raise the intended punch, then snapping his hand down and

 over Jerek's extended arm, pulling the man off-balance.

 Wulfgar dropped

    Aegis-fang and shoved hard on Jerek's chest, releasing

 his hold and sending the man stumbling backward into the

 surprised warriors.

    Scooping his warhammer as he went, Wulfgar charged

 forward, but so did the warriors, and the northern barbarian,

 to his ultimate frustration, knew that he would get nowhere

 near to Valric. He hoped for an open throwing path that he

 might take down the shaman before he, too, was killed, but

 then Valric surprised him, surprised everybody, by leaping

 forward through the line, howling a chant and throwing a

 burst of herbs and powders Wulfgar's way.

    Wulfgar felt the magical intrusion. Though the other

 warriors, Jerek included, backed away a few steps, he felt as

 if great black walls were closing in on him, stealing his

 strength, forcing him to hold in place.

    Waves and waves of immobilizing magic rolled on, Valric

 hopping about, throwing more powders, strengthening the

 spell.

    Wulfgar felt himself sinking, felt the ground coming up

 to swallow him.

    He was not unfamiliar with such magics, though. Not at

 all. In his years in the Abyss, Errtu's minions, particularly

 the wicked succubi, had used similar spells to render him

 helpless that they might have their way with him. How many

 times he had felt such intrusions. He had learned how to

 defeat them.

    He put up a wall of the purest rage, warding every

 magical suggestion of immobility with ten growls of anger,

 ten memories of Errtu and the succubi. Outwardly, though, the

 barbarian took great pains to seem defeated, to hold

 perfectly still, his warhammer dropping down to his side. He

 heard the chants of "Valric High Eye" and saw out of the

 corner of his eye several of the warriors turning in

 ceremonial dance, giving thanks to their god and to Valric,

 the human manifestation of that god.

    "Of what does he speak?" Jerek said to Valric. "What

 quest fell upon Torlin?"

    "As I told you," the skinny shaman replied, dancing out

 from the lines to stand before Wulfgar. "A drow elf! This

 man, seeming so honorable, traveled beside a drow elf! Could

 any but Torlin have taken the beast magic and defeated this

 deadly foe?"

    "You said that Torlin was on a vision quest," Jerek

 argued.

    "And so I believed," Valric lied. "And perhaps he is. Do

 not believe the lies of this one! Did you see how easily the

 power of Uthgar defeated him, holding him helpless before us?

 More likely he returned because his friends, all three, were

 slain by powerful Torlin, and because he knew that he could

 not hope to find vengeance any other way, could not hope to

 defeat Torlin even with the aid of the drew."

    "But Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, did defeat Torlin in the

 contest of strength," another man remarked.

    "That was before he angered Uthgar!" Valric howled. "See

 him standing now, helpless and defeated-"

    The word barely got out of his mouth before Wulfgar

 exploded into action, stepping forward and clamping one hand

 over the shaman's skinny face. With frightening power,

 Wulfgar lifted Valric into the air and slammed him back down

 to his feet repeatedly, then shook him wildly.

    "What god, Valric?" he roared. "What claim have you of

 Uthgar above my own as a warrior of Tempus?" To illustrate

 his point, and still with only one hand, Wulfgar tightened

 the bulging muscles in his arm and lifted Valric high into

 the air and held him there, perfectly steady, ignoring the

 man's flailing arms. "Had Torlin killed my friends in

 honorable battle, then I would not have returned for

 vengeance," he said honestly to Jerek. "I came not to avenge

 them, for they are well, all three. I came to avenge Torlin,

 a man of strength and honor, used so terribly by this

 wretch."

    "Valric is our shaman!" more than one man yelled.

    Wulfgar put him down to his feet with a growl, forcing

 him down to his knees and bent his head far back. Valric

 grabbed hard onto the man's forearm, crying out, "Kill him!"

 but Wulfgar only squeezed all the tighter, and Valric's words

 became a gurgling groan.

    Wulfgar looked around at the ring of warriors. Holding

 Valric so helpless had bought him some time, perhaps, but

 they would kill him, no doubt, when he was finished with the

 shaman. Still, it wasn't that thought that gave Wulfgar

 pause, for he hardly cared about his own life. Rather, it was

 the expression he saw upon Jerek's face, a look of a man so

 utterly defeated. Wulfgar had come in with news that could

 break the proud chieftain, and he knew that if he killed

 Valric now, and many others in the ensuing battle before he,

 too, was finally brought down, then Jerek would not likely

 recover. And neither, he understood, would the Sky Ponies.

    He looked down at the pitiful Valric. While he had been

 contemplating his next move he had inadvertently pushed back

 and down. The skinny man was practically bent in half and

 seemed near to breaking. How easy it would have been for

 Wulfgar to drive his arm down, snapping the man's spine.

    How easy and how empty. With a frustrated roar that had

 nothing to do with compassion, he lifted Valric from the

 ground again, clapped his free hand against the man's groin,

 and brought him high overhead. With a roar, he launched the

 man a dozen feet and more into the side of a tent, sending

 Valric, skins, and poles tumbling down.

    Warriors came at him, but he quickly had Aegis-fang in

 hand, and a great swipe drove them back, knocking the weapon

 from one and nearly tearing the man's arm off in the process.

    "Hold!" came Jerek's cry. "And you, Valric!" he

 emphatically added, seeing the shaman pulling himself from

 the mess, calling for Wulfgar's death.

    Jerek walked past his warriors, right up to Wulfgar. The

 younger man saw the murderous intent in his eyes.

    "I will take no pleasure in killing the father of

 Torlin," Wulfgar said calmly.

    That hit a nerve; Wulfgar saw the softening in the older

 man's face. Without another word, the barbarian turned about

 and started walking away, and none of the warriors moved to

 intercept him.

    "Kill him!" Valric cried, but before the words had even

 left his mouth, Wulfgar whirled about and let fly his

 warhammer, the spinning weapon covering the twenty feet to

 the kneeling shaman in the blink of an eye, striking him

 squarely in the chest and laying him out, quite dead, among

 the jumble of tent poles and skins.

    All eyes turned back to Wulfgar, and more than one Sky

 Pony made a move his way.

    But Aegis-fang was back in his hands, suddenly,

 dramatically, and they fell back.

    "His god Tempus is with him!" one man cried.

    Wulfgar turned about and started away once more, knowing

 in his heart that nothing could be further from the truth. He

 expected Jerek to run him down or to order his warriors to

 kill him, but the group behind him remained strangely quiet.

 He heard no commands, no protests, no movement. Nothing at

 all. He had so overwhelmed the already battered tribe, had

 stunned Jerek with the truth of his son's fate, and then had

 stunned them all by his sudden and brutal vengeance on

 Valric, that they simply didn't know how to react.

    No relief came over Wulfgar as he made his way from the

 encampment. He stormed down the road, angry at damned Valric,

 at all the damned Sky Ponies, at all the damned world. He

 kicked a stone from the path, then picked up another sizable

 rock and hurled it far through the air, shouting a roar of

 open defiance and pure frustration behind it. He stomped

 along with no direction in mind, with no sense of where he

 should go or where he should be. Soon after, he came upon the

 trail of a party of orcs, likely the same ones who had

 battled the Sky Ponies the previous night, an easily

 discernible track of blood, trampled grass, and broken twigs,

 veering from the main path into a small forest.

    Hardly thinking, Wulfgar turned down that path, still

 roughly pushing aside trees, growling, and muttering curses.

 Gradually, though, he calmed and quieted, and replaced his

 lack of general purpose with a short-term, specific goal. He

 followed the trail more carefully, paying attention to any

 side paths where flanking orc scouts might have moved.

 Indeed, he found one such path and a pair of tracks to

 confirm it. He went that way quietly, looking for shadows and

 cover.

    The day was late by then, the shadows long, but Wulfgar

 understood that he would have a hard time finding the scouts

 before they spotted him if they were on the alert-as they

 likely would be so soon after a terrific battle.

    Wulfgar had spent many years fighting humanoids beside

 Drizzt Do'Urden, learning of their methods and their

 motivations. His course now was to make sure that the orcs

 were not able to warn the larger group. He knew how to do

 that.

    Crouched in some brush by the side, the barbarian wrapped

 pliable twigs about his warhammer, trying to disguise the

 weapon as much as possible. Then he smeared mud about his

 face and pulled his cloak back so that it looked as though it

 was torn. Dirty and appearing battered, he walked out of the

 brush and started along the path, limping badly and groaning

 with every step, and every so often calling out for "my

 girl."

    Just a short time later he sensed that he was being

 watched. Now he exaggerated his limp, even stumbling down to

 the ground at one point, using his tumble to allow him a

 better scan of the area.

    He spotted a dark silhouette among the branches, an orc

 with a spear poised for a throw. Just a few steps more, he

 realized, and the creature would try to skewer him.

    And the other was about, he realized, though he hadn't

 spotted the wretch. Likely it was on the ground, ready to run

 in and finish him as soon as the spear took him down. These

 two should have warned their companions, but they wanted the

 apparently easy kill for themselves, Wulfgar knew, that they

 might loot the poor man before informing their leader.

    Wulfgar had to take them out quickly, but he didn't dare

 get much closer to the spear wielder. He pulled himself to

 his feet, took another staggering step along the trail, then

 paused and lifted his arm and eyes to the sky, wailing for

 his missing child. Then, nearly falling over again, shoulders

 slumped in defeat, he turned around and started back the way

 he had come, sobbing loudly, shoulders bobbing.

    He knew that the orc would never be able to resist that

 target, despite the range. His muscles tensed, he turned his

 head just a bit, hearing trained on the distant tree.

    Then he spun as the long-flying spear soared in. Deftly,

 with agility far beyond any man of his size, he caught the

 missile as he turned, pulling it tight against his side and

 issuing a profound grunt, then tumbling backward into the

 dirt, squirming, right hand grasping the spear, left tight

 about Aegis-fang.

    He heard the rustle to the side from an angle above his

 right shoulder as he lay on his back, waiting patiently.

    The second orc came out of the brush, scampering his way.

 Wulfgar timed the move with near perfection, rolling up and

 over that right shoulder, letting the spear fall as he went.

 He came up in a spin, Aegis-fang swiping across. But the orc

 skidded short, and the mighty weapon swished past harmlessly.

 Hardly concerned, Wulfgar continued the spin, right around,

 spotting the spear thrower on the tree branch as he came

 around and letting fly. He had to continue the spin, couldn't

 pause and watch the throw, though he heard the crunch and

 grunt, and the orc's broken body falling through the lower

 branches.

    The orc before him yelped and threw its club, then turned

 and tried to flee.

    Wulfgar accepted the hit as the club bounced off his

 massive chest. In an instant, he held the creature on its

 knees as he had held Valric, on its knees, head far back,

 backbone bowed. He pictured that moment then, conjuring an

 image of the wicked shaman. Then he drove down, with all his

 strength, growling and slapping away the orc's flailing arms.

 He heard the crackle of backbone and those arms stopped

 slapping at him, stabbing straight up into the air, trembling

 violently.

    Wulfgar let go, and the dead creature fell over.

    Aegis-fang came back to his grasp, reminding him of the

 other orc, and he glanced over and nodded, seeing the thing

 lying dead at the base of the tree.

    Hardly satisfied, his bloodlust rising with each kill,

 Wulfgar ran, back to the main trail and then down along the

 clear path. He found the orcish encampment as twilight

 descended. There were more than a score of the monsters, with

 others likely out and about, scouting or hunting. He should

 have waited until long after dark, until the camp had settled

 and many of the orcs were asleep. He should have waited until

 he could get a better picture of the group, a better

 understanding of their structure and strength.

    He should have waited, but he could not.

    Aegis-fang soared in, right between a pair of smaller

 orcs, startling them, then on to slam one large creature,

 taking it and the orc it had been talking to down to the

 ground.

    In charged Wulfgar, roaring wildly. He caught the spear

 of one startled orc, stabbing it across to impale the orc

 opposite, then tearing free the tip and spinning back,

 smashing the spear down across the first orc's head, breaking

 it in half. Holding both ends, Wulfgar jabbed them into

 either side of the orc's head, and when it reached up to grab

 the poles, the barbarian merely heaved it right over his

 head. A heavy punch dropped the next orc in line even as it

 moved to draw the sword from its belt, and then, roaring all

 the louder, Wulfgar crashed into two more, bearing them to

 the ground. He came up slapping and punching, kicking,

 anything at all to knock the orcs aside-and in truth, they

 showed more desire to scramble away than to come at the

 monstrous man.

    Wulfgar caught one, spun it about, and slammed his

 forehead right into its face, then caught it by the hair as

 it fell away and drove his fist through its ugly face.

    The barbarian leaped about, seeking his next victim. His

 momentum seemed to be fast waning with the passing seconds,

 but then Aegis-fang returned to his hand, and he wasted no

 time in whipping the hammer a dozen feet, its spinning head

 coming in at just the right angle to drive through the skull

 of one unfortunate creature.

    Orcs charged in, stabbing and clubbing. Wulfgar took one

 hit, then another, but with each minor gash or bruise the

 orcs inflicted, the huge and powerful man got his hands on

 one and tore the life from it. Then Aegis-fang returned

 again, and the orcish press was shattered, driven back by

 mighty swipes. Covered in blood, howling wildly, thrashing

 that terrible hammer, the sheer sight of Wulfgar proved too

 much for the cowardly creatures. Those who could get away

 fled into the forest, and those who could not died at the

 barbarian's strong hands.

    Mere minutes later, Wulfgar stomped out of the shattered

 camp, growling and smacking Aegis-fang against the trees. He

 knew that many orcs were watching him; he knew that none

 would dare attack.

    Soon after, he came into a clearing on a bluff that

 afforded him a view of the last moments of sunset, the same

 fiery lines he had seen on that evening on the southern edges

 of the Spine of the World.

    Now the colors did not touch his heart. Now he knew the

 thoughts of freedom from his past were a false hope, knew

 that his memories would follow him wherever he went, whatever

 he did. He felt no satisfaction at exacting revenge against

 Valric and no joy in slaughtering the orcs.

    Nothing.

    He walked on through the night, not even bothering to

 wash the blood from his clothes or to dress his many minor

 wounds. He walked toward the sunset, then kept the rising

 moon at his back, chasing its descent to the western horizon.

    Three days later, he found Luskan's eastern gate.

    

                            Chapter 11

                         THE BATTLE-MAGE

  

    Do not come here," LaValle cried, and then he added

 softly, "I beg."

    Entreri merely continued to stare at the man, his

 expression unreadable.

    "You wounded Kadran Gordeon," LaValle went on. "In pride

 more than in body, and that, I warn you, is more dangerous by

 far."

    "Gordeon is a fool," Entreri retorted.

    "A fool with an army," LaValle quipped. "No guild is more

 entrenched in the streets than the Basadonis. None have more

 resources, and all of those resources, I assure you, have

 been turned upon Artemis Entreri."

    "And upon LaValle, perhaps?" Entreri replied with a grin.

 "For speaking with the hunted man?"

    LaValle didn't answer the obvious question other than to

 continue to stare hard at Artemis Entreri, the man whose mere

 presence in his room this night might have just condemned

 him.

    "Tell them everything they ask of you," Entreri

 instructed. "Honestly. Do not try to deceive them for my

 sake. Tell them that I came here, uninvited, to speak with

 you and that I show no wounds for all their efforts."

    "You would taunt them so?"

    Entreri shrugged. "Does it matter?"

    LaValle had no answer to that, and so the assassin, with

 a bow, moved to the window and, defeating one trap with a

 flick of the wrist and carefully manipulating his body to

 avoid the others, slipped out to the wall and dropped

 silently to the street.

    He dared to go by the Copper Ante that night, though only

 quickly and with no effort to actually enter the place.

 Still, he did make himself known to the door halflings. To

 his surprise, a short way down the alley at the side of the

 building, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies came out a secret door to

 speak with him.

    "A battle-mage," she warned. "Merle Pariso. With a

 reputation unparalleled in Calimport. Fear him, Artemis

 Entreri. Run from him. Flee the city and all of Calimshan."

 And with that, she slipped through another barely detectable

 crack in the wall and was gone.

    The gravity of her words and tone were not lost on the

 assassin. The mere fact that Dwahvel had come out to him,

 with nothing to gain and everything to lose-how could he

 repay the favor, after all, if he took her advice and fled

 the realm?-tipped him off that she had been instructed to so

 inform him, or at least, that this battle-mage was making no

 secret of the hunt.

    So perhaps the wizard was a bit too cocksure, he told

 himself, but that, too, proved of little comfort. A battle-

 mage! A wizard trained specifically in the art of magical

 warfare. Cocksure, and with a right to be. Entreri had

 battled, and killed, many wizards, but he understood the

 desperate truth of his present situation. A wizard was not so

 difficult an enemy for a seasoned warrior, as long as the

 warrior was able to prepare the battlefield favorably. That,

 too, was usually not difficult, since wizards were often, by

 nature, distracted and unprepared. Typically a wizard had to

 anticipate battle far in advance, at the beginning of the

 day, that he might prepare the appropriate spells. Wizards,

 distracted by their continual research, rarely prepared such

 spells. But when a wizard was the hunter and not the hunted

 he would not be caught off his guard. Entreri knew he was in

 trouble. He seriously considered taking Dwahvel's advice.

    For the first time since he had returned to Calimport,

 the assassin truly appreciated the danger of being without

 allies. He considered that in light of his experiences in

 Menzoberranzan, where unallied rogues could not survive for

 long.

    Perhaps Calimport wasn't so different.

    He started for his new room, an empty hovel at the back

 of an alleyway, but stopped and reconsidered. It wasn't

 likely that the wizard, with such a reputation as a combat

 spellcaster, would be overly skilled in divination spells as

 well. That hardly mattered, Entreri knew. It all came down to

 connections, and Merle Pariso was acting on behalf of the

 Basadoni guild. If he wanted to magically locate Entreri, the

 guild would grant him the resources of their diviners.

    Where to go? He didn't want to remain on the open street

 where a wizard could strike from a long distance, could even,

 perhaps, levitate high above and rain destructive magic upon

 him. And so he searched the buildings, looking for a place to

 hide, an encampment, and knowing all the while that magical

 eyes might be upon him.

    With that rather disturbing thought in mind, Entreri

 wasn't overly surprised when he slipped quietly into the

 supposedly empty back room of a darkened warehouse and a

 robed figure appeared right before him with a puff of orange

 smoke. The door blew closed behind him.

    Entreri glanced all around, noting the lack of exits in

 the room, cursing his foul luck in finding this place. Again,

 when he considered it, it came down to his lack of allies and

 lack of knowledge with present-day Calimport. They were

 waiting for him, wherever he might go. They were ahead of

 him, watching his every move and obviously taking a prepared

 battlefield right with them. Entreri felt foolish for even

 coming back to this inhospitable city without first probing,

 without learning all that he would need to survive.

    Enough of the doubts and second guesses, he pointedly

 reminded himself, drawing out his dagger and setting himself

 low in a crouch, concentrating on the situation at hand. He

 thought of turning back for the door, but knew without doubt

 that it would be magically sealed.

    "Behold the Merle!" the wizard said with a laugh, waving

 his arms out wide. The voluminous sleeves of his robes

 floated out behind his lifting limbs and threw a rainbow of

 multicolored lights. A second wave and his arms came forward,

 throwing a blast of lightning at the assassin. But Entreri

 was already moving, rolling to the side and out of harm's

 way. He glanced back, hoping the bolt might have blown

 through the door, but it was still closed and seemed solid.

    "Oh, well dodged!" Merle Pariso congratulated. "But

 really, pitiful assassin, do you desire to make this last

 longer? Why not stand still and be done with it, quickly and

 mercifully?" He stopped his taunting and launched into

 another spellcasting as Entreri charged in, jeweled dagger

 flashing. Merle made no move to defend against the attack,

 continuing calmly with his casting as Entreri came in hard,

 stabbing for his face.

    The dagger stopped as surely as if it had struck a stone

 wall. Entreri wasn't really surprised-any wise wizard would

 have prepared such a defense-but what amazed him, even as he

 went flying back, hit by a burst of magical missiles, was

 Pariso's concentration. Entreri had to admire the man's

 unflinching spellcasting even as the deadly dagger came at

 his face, unblinking even as the blade flashed right before

 his eyes.

    Entreri staggered to the side, diving and rolling,

 anticipating another attack. But now Merle Pariso, supremely

 confident, merely laughed at him. "Where will you run?" the

 battle-mage taunted. "How many times will you find the energy

 to dodge?"

    Indeed, if he allowed the wizard's taunts to sink in,

 Entreri would have found it hard to hold his heart; many

 lesser warriors might have simply taken the wizard's advice

 and surrendered to the seemingly inevitable.

    But not Entreri. His lethargy fell away. With his very

 life on the line all the doubts of his life and his purpose

 flew away. Now he lived completely in the moment, adrenaline

 pumping. One step at a time, and the first of those steps was

 to defeat the stoneskin, the magical defense that could turn

 any blade-but only for a certain number of attacks. Spinning

 and rolling, the assassin took up a chair and broke free a

 leg, then rolled about and launched it at the wizard, scoring

 an ineffective hit.

    Another burst of magical missiles slammed into him,

 following him unerringly in his roll and stinging him. He

 shrugged through it, though, and came up throwing. A second,

 then a third chair leg scored two more hits.

    The fourth followed in rapid succession. Then Entreri

 threw the base of the chair. It was a meager missile that

 would hardly have hurt the wizard even without the magical

 defense, but one that took yet another layer off the

 stoneskin.

    Entreri paid for the offensive flurry, though, as Merle

 Pariso's next lightning bolt caught him hard and launched him

 spinning sidelong. His shoulder burned, his hair danced on

 end, and his heart fluttered.

    Desperate and hurt, the assassin went in hard, dagger

 slashing. "How many more can you defeat?" he roared, stabbing

 hard again and again.

    His answer came in the form of flames, a shroud of

 dancing fire covering, but hardly consuming, Merle Pariso.

 Entreri noted the fire too late to stop short his last

 attack, and the dagger went through, again hitting harmlessly

 against the stoneskin-harmlessly to Pariso but not to

 Entreri. The new spell, the flame shield, replicated the

 intended bite of that dagger back at Entreri, drawing a deep

 gash along the already battered man's ribs.

    With a howl the assassin fell back, purposely turning

 himself in line with the door, then dodging deftly as the

 predictable lightning bolt came after him.

    The rolling assassin looked back as he came around,

 pleased to see that this time the wooden door had indeed

 splintered. He grabbed another chair and threw it at the

 wizard, turning for the door even as he released it.

    Merle Pariso's groan stopped him dead and turned him back

 around, thinking the stoneskin expired.

    But then it was Entreri's turn to groan. "Oh, clever," he

 congratulated, realizing the wizard's groan to be no more

 than a ruse, buying the man time to cast his next spell.

    The assassin turned back for the door but hadn't gone a

 step before he was forced back, as a wall of huge flames

 erupted along that wall, blocking escape.

    "Well fought, assassin," Merle Pariso said honestly. "I

 expected as much from Artemis Entreri. But now, alas, you

 die." He finished by drawing a wand, pointing it at the floor

 at his feet, and firing a burning seed.

    Entreri fell flat, pulling what remained of his cloak

 over his head as the seed exploded into a fireball, filling

 all the room, burning his hair and scorching his lungs, but

 harming Pariso not at all. The wizard was secure within his

 fiery shield.

    Entreri came up dazed, eyes filled with heat and smoke as

 all the building around him burned. Merle Pariso stood there,

 laughing wildly.

    The assassin had to get out. He couldn't possibly defeat

 the mage and wouldn't survive for much longer against

 Pariso's potent magics. He turned for the door, thinking to

 dive right through the fire wall, but then a glowing sword

 appeared in midair before him, slashing hard. He had to dodge

 aside and get his dagger up against the blade to turn it. The

 invisible opponent-Entreri knew it to be Merle Pariso's will

 acting through the magical dweomer-came on hard, forcing him

 to retreat. The sword always stayed between the assassin and

 the door.

    On his balance now, Entreri was more than a match for the

 slicing weapon, easily dodging and striking back hard. He

 knew that no hand guided the blade, that the only way to

 defeat it was to strike at the sword itself, and that posed

 no great problem for the warrior assassin. But then another

 glowing sword appeared. Entreri had never seen this before,

 had never even heard of a wizard who could control two such

 magical creations at the same time.

    He dived and rolled, and the swords pursued. He tried to

 dart around them for the doorway but found that they were too

 quick. He glanced back at Pariso. Barely, through the growing

 smoke, he could see the wizard still shrouded in defensive

 flames, tapping his fireball wand against his cheek.

    The heat nearly overwhelmed Entreri. The flames were all

 about, on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling. Wood

 crackled in protest, and beams collapsed.

    "I will not leave," he heard Merle Pariso say. "I will

 watch until the life is gone from you, Artemis Entreri."

    On came the glowing swords, slashing in perfect

 coordination, and Entreri knew that the wizard almost got

 what he wanted. The assassin barely, barely, avoiding the

 hits, dived forward under the blades, coming up in a run for

 the door. Shielding his face with his arms, he leaped into

 the fire wall, thinking to break through the battered door.

    He hit as solid a barrier as he had ever felt, a magical

 wall, he knew. He scrambled back out of the flames into the

 burning room, and the two swords waited for him. Merle Pariso

 stood calmly pointing the dreaded fireball wand.

    But then to the side of the wizard a green-gloved

 disembodied hand appeared, sliding out of nowhere and holding

 what appeared to be a large egg.

    Merle Pariso's eyes widened in horror. "Wh-who?" he

 stuttered. "Wha-?"

    The hand tossed the egg to the floor, where it exploded

 into a huge ball of powdery dust, rolling into the air, then

 shimmering into a multicolored cloud. Entreri heard music

 then, even above the roar of the conflagration, many

 different notes climbing the scale, then dropping low and

 ending in a long, monotonal humming sound.

    The glowing swords disappeared. So did the fire wall

 blocking the door, though the normal flames still burned

 brightly along door and wall. So did Merle Pariso's defensive

 fire shield.

    The wizard cried out and waved his arms frantically,

 trying to cast another spell-some magical escape, Entreri

 realized, for now he was obviously feeling the heat as

 intensely as was Entreri.

    The assassin realized that the magical barrier was likely

 gone as well, and he could have turned and run from the room.

 But he couldn't tear his eyes from the spectacle of Pariso,

 backpedaling, so obviously distressed. To the amazement of

 both, many of the smaller fires near the wizard then changed

 shape, appearing as little humanoid creatures, circling

 Pariso in a strange dance.

    The wizard skipped backward, tripped over a loose board,

 and went down on his back. The little fire humanoids, like a

 pack of hunting wolves, leaped upon him, lighting his robes

 and burning his skin. Pariso opened wide his mouth to scream,

 and one of the fiery animations raced right down his throat,

 stealing his voice and burning him from the inside.

    The green-gloved hand beckoned to Entreri.

    The wall behind him collapsed, sparks and embers flying

 everywhere, stealing his easy escape.

    Moving cautiously but quickly, the assassin circled wide

 of the hand, gaining a better angle as he realized that it

 was not a disembodied hand at all, but merely one poking

 through a dimensional gate of some sort.

    Entreri's knees went weak at the sight. He nearly bolted

 back for the blazing door, but a sound from above told him

 that the ceiling was falling in. Purely on survival instinct,

 for if he had thought about it he likely would have chosen

 death, Entreri leaped through the dimensional door. Into the

 arms of his saviors.

    

                            Chapter 12

                          FINDING A NICHE

  

    He knew this town, though only vaguely. He'd made a

 single passage through the place long ago, in the days of

 hope and future dreams, in the search for Mithral Hall.

 Little seemed familiar to Wulfgar now as he made his plodding

 way through Luskan, absorbing the sights and sounds of the

 many open air markets and the general bustle of a northern

 city awakening after winter's slumber.

    Many, many gazes fell over him as he moved along, for

 Wulfgar-closer to seven feet tall than to six with a massive

 chest and shoulders, and the glittering warhammer strapped

 across his back-was no ordinary sight. Barbarians

 occasionally wandered into Luskan, but even among the hardy

 folk Wulfgar loomed huge.

    He ignored the looks and the whispers and continued

 merely to wander the many ways. He spotted the Host-tower of

 the Arcane, the famed wizard's guild of Luskan, and

 recognized the building easily enough, since it was in the

 shape of a huge tree with spreading limbs. But again that one

 note of recognition did little to guide the man along. It had

 been so long ago, a lifetime ago it seemed, since he had last

 been here.

    Minutes became an hour, then two hours. The barbarian's

 vision was turned inward now as much as outward. His mind

 replayed images of the past few days, particularly the moment

 of his unsatisfying revenge. The image of Valric High Eye

 flying back into the jumble of broken tenting, Aegis-fang

 crushing his chest, was vivid in his mind's eye.

    Wulfgar ran his hand through his unkempt hair and

 staggered along. Clearly he was exhausted, for he had slept

 only a few scattered hours in three days since the encounter

 with the Sky Ponies. He had wandered the roads to the west

 aimlessly until he had spotted the outline of the distant

 city. The guards at the eastern gate of Luskan had threatened

 to turn him away, but when he had just swung about with a

 shrug they called after him and told him he could enter but

 warned him to keep his weapon strapped across his back.

    Wulfgar had no intention of fighting and no intention of

 following the guards' command should a fight find him. He

 merely nodded and walked through the gates, then down the

 streets and through the markets.

    He discovered another familiar landmark when the shadows

 were long, the sun low in the western sky. A signpost named

 one way Half Moon Street, a place Wulfgar had been before. A

 short way down the street he saw the sign for the Cutlass, a

 tavern he knew from his first trip through, a place wherein

 he had been involved, in some ways had started, a tremendous

 row. Looking at the Cutlass, at the whole decrepit street

 now, Wulfgar wondered how he could have ever expected

 otherwise.

    This was the place for the lowest orders of society, for

 thugs and rogues, for men running from lords. The barbarian

 put his hand in his nearly empty pouch, fumbling with the few

 coins, and realized then that this was where he belonged.

    He went into the Cutlass half fearing he would be

 recognized, that he would find himself in another brawl

 before the door closed behind him.

    Of course he was not recognized. Nor did he see any faces

 that seemed the least bit familiar. The layout of the place

 was pretty much the same as he remembered. As he scanned the

 room, his gaze inevitably went to the wall to the side of the

 long bar, the wall where a younger Wulfgar had set a brute in

 his place by driving the man's head right through the

 planking.

    He was so full of pride back then, so ready to fight.

 Now, too, he was more than willing to put his fists or

 weapons to use, but his purpose in doing so had changed. Now

 he fought out of anger, out of the sheerest rage, whether

 that rage had anything to do with whatever enemy stood before

 him or not. Now he fought because that course seemed as good

 as any other. Perhaps, just perhaps, he fought in the hopes

 that he would lose, that some enemy would end his internal

 torment.

    He couldn't hold that thought, couldn't hold any thought,

 as he made his way to the bar, taking no care not to jostle

 the many patrons who crowded before him. He pulled off his

 traveling cloak and took a seat, not even bothering to ask

 either of the men flanking the stool if they had a friend who

 was using it.

    And then he watched and waited, letting the myriad of

 sights and sounds-whispered conversations, lewd remarks aimed

 at serving wenches more than ready to snap back with their

 own stinging retort-become a general blur, a welcomed buzz.

    His head drooped, and that movement alone woke him. He

 shifted in his seat and noted then that the barkeep, an old

 man who still held the hardness of youth about his strong

 shoulders, stood before him, wiping a glass.

    "Arumn Gardpeck," the barkeep introduced himself,

 extending a hand.

    Wulfgar regarded the offered hand but did not shake it.

    Without missing a beat the barkeep went back to his

 wiping. "A drink?" he asked.

    Wulfgar shook his head and looked away, desiring nothing

 from the man, especially any useless conversation.

    Arumn came forward, though, leaning over the bar and

 drawing Wulfgar's full attention. "I want no trouble in me

 bar," he said calmly, looking over the barbarian's huge,

 muscled arms.

    Wulfgar waved him away.

    Minutes slipped past, and the place grew even more

 crowded. No one bothered Wulfgar, though, and so he allowed

 himself to relax his guard, his head inevitably drooping. He

 fell asleep, his face buried in his arms atop Arumn

 Gardpeck's clean bar.

    "Hey there," he heard, and the voice sounded as if it was

 far, far away. He felt a shake then, on his shoulder, and he

 opened his sleepy eyes and lifted his head to see Arumn's

 smiling face. "Time for leaving."

    Wulfgar stared at him blankly.

    "Where are ye stayin'?" the barkeep asked. "Might that I

 could find a couple who'd walk ye there."

    For a long while, Wulfgar didn't answer, staring groggily

 at the man, trying to get his bearings.

    "And he weren't even drinking!" one man howled from the

 side. Wulfgar turned to regard him and noted that several

 large men, Arumn Gardpeck's security force, no doubt, had

 formed a semicircle behind him. Wulfgar turned back to eye

 Arumn.

    "Where are ye staying" the man asked again. "And ye shut

 yer mouth, Josi Puddles," he added to the taunting man.

    Wulfgar shrugged. "Nowhere," he answered honestly.

    "Well, ye can't be stayin' 'ere!" yet another man

 growled, moving close enough to poke the barbarian in the

 shoulder.

    Wulfgar calmly swung his head, taking a measure of the

 man.

    "Hush yer mouth!" Arumn was quick to scold, and he

 shifted about, drawing Wulfgar's gaze. "I could give ye a

 room for a few silver pieces," he said.

    "I have little money," the big man admitted.

    "Then sell me yer hammer," said another directly behind

 Wulfgar. When he turned to regard the speaker he saw that the

 man was holding Aegis-fang. Now Wulfgar was fully awake and

 up, hand extended, his expression and posture demanding the

 hammer's immediate return.

    "Might that I will give it back to ye," the man remarked

 as Wulfgar slid out of the chair and advanced a threatening

 step. As he spoke, he lifted Aegis-fang, more in an angle to

 cave in Wulfgar's skull that to hand it over.

    Wulfgar stopped short and shifted his dangerous glare

 over each of the large men, his lips curling up in a

 confident, wicked, smile. "You wish to buy it?" he asked the

 man holding the hammer. "Then you should know its name."

    Wulfgar spoke the hammer's name, and it vanished from the

 hands of the threatening man and reappeared in Wulfgar's. The

 barbarian was moving even before the hammer materialized,

 closing in on the man with a single long stride and slapping

 him with a backhand that launched him into the air to land

 crashing over a table.

    The others came at the huge barbarian, but only for an

 instant, for he was ready now, waving the powerful warhammer

 so easily that the others understood he was not one to be

 taken lightly and not one to fight unless they were willing

 to see their ranks thinned considerably.

    "Hold! Hold!" cried Arumn, rushing out from behind the

 bar and waving his bouncers away. A couple went over to help

 the man Wulfgar had slapped. So disoriented was he that they

 had to hoist him and support him.

    And still Arumn waved them all away. He stood before

 Wulfgar, within easy striking distance, but he was not

 afraid-or if he was, he wasn't showing it.

    "I could use one with yer strength," he remarked. "That

 was Reef ye dropped with an open-handed slap, and Reef's one

 o' me better fighters."

    Wulfgar looked across the room at the man sitting with

 the other bouncers and scoffed.

    Arumn led him back to the bar and sat him down, then went

 behind and produced a bottle, setting it right before the big

 man and motioning for him to drink.

    Wulfgar did, a great hearty swig that burned all the way

 down.

    "A room and free food," Arumn said. "All ye can eat. And

 all that I ask in return is that ye help keep me tavern free

 o' fights or that ye finish 'em quick if they start."

    Wulfgar looked back over his shoulder at the men across

 the way. "What of them?" he asked, taking another huge swig

 from the bottle, then coughing as he wiped his bare forearm

 across his lips. The potent liquor seemed to draw all the

 coating from his throat.

    "They help me when I ask, as they help most o' the

 innkeepers on Half Moon street and all the streets about,"

 Arumn explained. "I been thinking o' hiring me own and

 keeping him on, and I'm thinking that ye'd fit that role

 well."

    "You hardly know me," Wulfgar argued, and his third gulp

 half drained the bottle. This time the burning seemed to

 spread out more quickly, until all his body felt warm and a

 bit numb. "And you know nothing of my history."

    "Nor do I care," said Arumn. "We don't get many of yer

 type in here-northmen, I mean. Ye've got a reputation for

 fighting, and the way ye slapped Reef aside tells me that

 reputation's well earned."

    "Room and food?" Wulfgar asked.

    "And drink," Arumn added, motioning to the bottle, which

 Wulfgar promptly lifted to his lips and drained. He went to

 move it back to Arumn, but it seemed to jump from his hand,

 and when he tried to retrieve it he merely kept pushing it

 awkwardly along until Arumn deftly scooped it away from him.

    Wulfgar sat up straighter, or tried to, and closed his

 eyes very tightly, trying to find a center of focus. When he

 opened his eyes once more, he found another full bottle

 before him, and he wasted no time in bringing that one, too,

 up to his lips.

    An hour later, Arumn, who had taken a few drinks himself,

 helped Wulfgar up the stairs and into a tiny room. He tried

 to guide Wulfgar onto the small bed-a cot too small to

 comfortably accommodate the huge barbarian-but both wound up

 falling over, crashing across the cot then onto the floor.

    They shared a laugh, an honest laugh, the first one

 Wulfgar had known since the rescue in the ice cave.

    "They start coming in soon after midday," Arumn

 explained, spit flying with every word. "But I won't be

 needing ye until the sun's down. I'll get ye then, and I'm

 thinking that yell be needin' waking!"

    They shared another laugh at that, and Arumn staggered

 out the door, falling against it to close it behind him,

 leaving Wulfgar alone in the pitch-black room.

    Alone. Completely alone.

    That notion nearly overwhelmed him. Sitting there drunk

 the barbarian realized that Errtu hadn't come in here with

 him, that everything, every memory, good and bad, was but a

 harmless blur. In those bottles, under the spell of that

 potent liquor, Wulfgar found a reprieve. Food and a room and

 drink Arumn had promised.

    To Wulfgar the last condition of his employment rang out

 as the most important.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Entreri stood in an alley, not far from his near-disaster

 with Merle Pariso, looking back at the blazing warehouse.

 Flames leaped high above the rooftops of the nearest

 buildings. Three others stood beside him. They were about the

 same height as the assassin, a bit more slender, perhaps, but

 with muscles obviously honed for battle.

    What distinguished them most was their ebony skin. One

 wore a huge purple hat, set with a gigantic plume.

    "Twice I have pulled you from certain death," the one

 with the hat remarked.

    Entreri looked hard at the speaker, wanting nothing more

 than to drive his dagger deep into the dark elf's chest. He

 knew better though, knew that this one, Jarlaxle, was far too

 protected for any such obvious attacks.

    "We have much to discuss," the dark elf said, and he

 motioned to one of his companions. With a thought, it seemed,

 the drow brought up another dimensional door, this one

 leading into a room where several other dark elves had

 gathered.

    "Kimmuriel Oblodra," Jarlaxle explained. Entreri knew the

 name-the surname, at least. House Oblodra had once been the

 third most powerful house in Menzoberranzan and one of the

 most frightening because of their practice of psionics, a

 curious and little understood magic of the mind. During the

 Time of Troubles, the Oblodrans, whose powers were not

 adversely affected, as were the more conventional magics

 within the city, used the opportunity to press their

 advantage, even going so far as to threaten Matron Mother

 Baenre, the ruling Matron of the ruling house of the city.

 When the waves of instability that marked that strange time

 turned again in favor of conventional magics and against the

 powers of the mind, House Oblodra had been obliterated, the

 great structure and all its inhabitants pulled into the great

 gorge, the Clawrift, by a physical manifestation of Matron

 Baenre's rage.

    Well, Entreri thought, staring at the psionicist, not all

 of the inhabitants.

    He went through the psionic door with Jarlaxle- what

 choice did he have?-and after a long moment of dizzying

 disorientation took a seat in the small room when the drow

 mercenary motioned for him to do so. All the dark elf group

 except for Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel, went out then in practiced

 order, to secure the area about the meeting place.

    "We are safe enough," Jarlaxle assured Entreri.

    "They were watching me magically," the assassin replied.

 "That was how Merle Pariso set the ambush."

    "We have been watching you magically for many weeks,"

 Jarlaxle said with a grin. "They watch you no more, I assure

 you."

    "You came for me, then?" the assassin asked. "It seems a

 bit of trouble to retrieve one rivvil," he added, using the

 drow word, and not a complimentary one, for human.

    Jarlaxle laughed aloud at Entreri's choice of that word.

 It was indeed the word for "human," but one also used to

 describe many inferior races, which meant any race that was

 not drow.

    "To retrieve you?" the assassin asked incredulously. "Do

 you wish to return to Menzoberranzan?"

    "I would kill you or force you to kill me long before we

 ever stepped into the drow city," Entreri replied in all

 seriousness.

    "Of course," Jarlaxle said calmly, taking no offense and

 not disagreeing in the least. "That is not your place, nor is

 Calimport ours."

    "Then why have you come?"

    "Because Calimport is your place, and Menzoberranzan is

 mine," the drow replied, smiling all the wider, as though the

 simple statement explained everything.

    And before he questioned Jarlaxle more deeply, Entreri

 sat back and took a long while to reflect upon the words.

 Jarlaxle was, above all else, an opportunist. The drow, along

 with Bregan D'aerthe, his powerful band of rogues, seemed to

 find a way to gain from practically every situation.

 Menzoberranzan was a city ruled by females, the priestesses

 of Lolth, and yet even there Jarlaxle and his band, almost

 exclusively males, were far from the underclass. So why now

 had he come to find Entreri, come to a place that he just

 openly and honestly admitted was not his place at all?

    "You want me to front you," the assassin stated.

    "I am not familiar with the term," Jarlaxle replied.

    Now Entreri, seeing the lie for what it was, was the one

 wearing the grin. "You want to extend the hand of

    Bregan D'aerthe to the surface, to Calimport, but you

 recognize that you and yours would never be accepted even

 among the bowel-dwellers of the city."

    "We could use magic to disguise our true identity," the

 drow argued.

    "But why bother when you have Artemis Entreri?" the

 assassin was quick to reply. "And do I?" asked the drow.

    Entreri thought it over for a moment, then merely

 shrugged.

    "I offer you protection from your enemies," Jarlaxle

 stated. "No, more than that, I offer you power over your

 enemies. With your knowledge and reputation and the power of

 Bregan D'aerthe secretly behind you, you will soon rule the

 streets of Calimport."

    "As Jarlaxle's puppet," Entreri said.

    "As Jarlaxle's partner," the drow replied. "I have no

 need of puppets. In fact, I consider them a hindrance. A

 partner truly profiting from the organization is one working

 harder to reach higher goals. Besides, Artemis Entreri, are

 we not friends?"

    Entreri laughed aloud at that notion. The words

 "Jarlaxle" and "friend" seemed incongruous indeed when used

 in the same sentence, bringing to mind an old street proverb

 that the most dangerous and threatening words a Calimshite

 street vendor could ever say to someone were "trust me."

    And that is exactly what Jarlaxle had just said to

 Entreri.

    "Your enemies of the Basadoni Guild will soon call you

 pasha," the drow went on.

    Entreri showed no reaction.

    "Even the political leaders of the city, of all the realm

 of Calimshan, will defer to you," said Jarlaxle.

    Entreri showed no reaction.

    "I will know now, before you leave this room, if my offer

 is agreeable," Jarlaxle added, his voice sounding a bit more

 ominous.

    Entreri understood well the implications of that tone. He

 knew about Bregan D'aerthe being within the city now, and

 that alone meant that he would either play along or be killed

 outright.

    "Partners," the assassin said, poking himself in the

 chest. "But I direct the sword of Bregan D'aerthe in

 Calimport. You strike when and where I decide."

    Jarlaxle agreed with a nod. Then he snapped his fingers

 and another dark elf entered the room, moving beside Entreri.

 This was obviously the assassin's escort.

    "Sleep well," Jarlaxle bade the human. "For tomorrow

 begins your ascent."

    Entreri didn't bother to reply but just walked out of the

 room.

    Yet another drow came out from behind a curtain then. "He

 was not lying," he assured Jarlaxle, speaking in the tongue

 common to dark elves.

    The cunning mercenary leader nodded and smiled, glad to

 have the services of so powerful an ally as Rai'gy Bondalek

 of Ched Nasad, formerly the high priest of that other drow

 city, but ousted in a coup and rescued by the ever-

 opportunistic Bregan D'aerthe. Jarlaxle had settled his

 sights on Rai'gy long before, for the drow was not only

 powerful in the god-given priestly magics, but was well-

 versed in the ways of wizards as well. How lucky for Bregan

 D'aerthe that Rai'gy had suddenly found himself an outcast.

    Rai'gy had no idea that Jarlaxle had been the one to

 incite that coup.

    "Your Entreri did not seem thrilled with the treasures

 you dangled before him," Rai'gy dared to remark. "He will do

 as he promised, perhaps, but with little heart."

    Jarlaxle nodded, not the least bit surprised by Entreri's

 reaction. He had come to understand Artemis Entreri quite

 well in the months the assassin had lived with Bregan

 D'aerthe in Menzoberranzan. He knew the man's motivations and

 desires-better, perhaps, than Entreri knew them.

    "There is one other treasure that I did not offer," he

 explained. "One that Artemis Entreri does not even yet

 realize that he wants." Jarlaxle reached into the folds of

 his cloak and produced an amulet dangling at the end of a

 silver chain. "I took it from Catti-brie," he explained.

 "Companion of Drizzt Do'Urden. It was given to her adoptive

 father, the dwarf Bruenor Battlehammer, by the High Lady

 Alustriel of Silverymoon long ago as a means of tracking the

 rogue drow."

    "You know much," Rai'gy remarked.

    "That is how I survive," Jarlaxle replied.

    "But Catti-brie knows it is gone," reasoned Kimmuriel

 Oblodra. "Thus, she and her companion have likely taken steps

 to defeat any further use of it."

    Jarlaxle was shaking his head long before the psionicist

 ever finished. "Catti-brie's was returned to her cloak before

 she left the city. This one is a copy in form and in magic,

 created by a wizard associate. Likely the woman returned the

 original to Bruenor Battlehammer, and he gave it back to Lady

 Alustriel. I should think she would want it back or at least

 want it out of Catti-brie's possession, for it seems the two

 had somewhat of a rivalry growing concerning the affections

 of the rogue Drizzt Do'Urden."

    Both the others crinkled their faces in disgust at the

 thought that any drow so beautiful could find passion with a

 non-drow, a creature, by that simple definition, who was

 obviously iblith, or excrement.

    Jarlaxle, himself intrigued by the beautiful Catti-brie,

 didn't bother to refute their racist feelings.

    "But if that is a copy, is the magic strong enough?"

 Kimmuriel asked, and he emphasized the word "magic" as if to

 prompt Jarlaxle to explain how it might prove useful.

    "Magical dweomers create pathways of power," Rai'gy

 Bondalek explained. "Pathways that I know how to enhance and

 to replicate."

    "Rai'gy spent many of his earlier years perfecting the

 technique," Jarlaxle added. "His ability to recover the

 previous powers of ancient Ched Nasad relics proved pivotal

 in his ascension to the position as the city's high priest.

 And he can do it again, even enhancing the previous dweomer

 to new heights."

    "That we might find Drizzt Do'Urden," Kimmuriel said.

    Jarlaxle nodded. "What a fine trophy for Artemis

 Entreri."

    

                             Part 3

  

                       CLIMBING TO THE TOP

                         OF THE BOTTOM

    

    I watched the miles roll out behind me, whether walking

 down a road or sailing fast out of Waterdeep for the

 southlands, putting distance between us and the friend we

 four had left behind. The friend?

    Many times during those long and arduous days, each of us

 in our own little space came to wonder about that word

 "friend" and the responsibilities such a label might carry.

 We had left Wulfgar behind in the wilds of the Spine of the

 World no less and had no idea if he was well, if he was even

 still alive. Could a true friend so desert another? Would a

 true friend allow a man to walk alone along troubled and

 dangerous paths?

    Often I ponder the meaning of that word. Friend. It seems

 such an obvious thing, friendship, and yet often it becomes

 so very complicated. Should I have stopped Wulfgar, even

 knowing and admitting that he had his own road to walk? Or

 should I have gone with him? Or should we all four have

 shadowed him, watching over him?

    I think not, though I admit that I know not for certain.

 There is a fine line between friendship and parenting, and

 when that line is crossed, the result is often disastrous. A

 parent who strives to make a true friend of his or her child

 may well sacrifice authority, and though that parent may be

 comfortable with surrendering the dominant position, the

 unintentional result will be to steal from that child the

 necessary guidance and, more importantly, the sense of

 security the parent is supposed to impart. On the opposite

 side, a friend who takes a role as parent forgets the most

 important ingredient of friendship: respect.

    For respect is the guiding principle of friendship, the

 lighthouse beacon that directs the course of any true

 friendship. And respect demands trust.

    Thus, the four of us pray for Wulfgar and intend that our

 paths will indeed cross again. Though we'll often look back

 over our shoulders and wonder, we hold fast to our

 understanding of friendship, of trust, and of respect. We

 accept, grudgingly but resolutely, our divergent paths.

    Surely Wulfgar's trials have become my trials in many

 ways, but I see now that the friendship of mine most in flux

 is not the one with the barbarian-not from my perspective,

 anyway, since I understand that Wulfgar alone must decide the

 depth and course of our bond-but my relationship with Catti-

 brie. Our love for each other is no secret between us, or to

 anyone else watching us (and I fear that perhaps the bond

 that has grown between us might have had some influence in

 Wulfgar's painful decisions), but the nature of that love

 remains a mystery to me and to Catti-brie. We have in many

 ways become as brother and sister, and surely I am closer to

 her than I could ever have been to any of my natural

 siblings! For several years we had only each other to count

 on and both learned beyond any doubt that the other would

 always be there. I would die for her, and she for me. Without

 hesitation, without doubt. Truly in all the world there is no

 one, not even Bruenor, Wulfgar, or Regis, or even Zaknafein,

 with whom I would rather spend my time. There is no one who

 can view a sunrise beside me and better understand the

 emotions that sight always stirs within me. There is no one

 who can fight beside me and better compliment my movements.

 There is no one who better knows all that is in my heart and

 thoughts, though I had not yet spoken a word.

    But what does that mean?

    Surely I feel a physical attraction to Catti-brie as

 well. She is possessed of a combination of innocence and a

 playful wickedness. For all her sympathy and empathy and

 compassion, there is an edge to Catti-brie that makes

 potential enemies tremble in fear and potential lovers

 tremble in anticipation. I believe that she feels similarly

 toward me, and yet we both understand the dangers of this

 uncharted territory, dangers more frightening than any

 physical enemy we have ever known. I am drow, and young, and

 with the dawn and twilight of several centuries ahead of me.

 She is human and, though young, with merely decades of life

 ahead of her. Of course, Catti-brie's life is complicated

 enough merely having a drow elf as a traveling companion and

 friend. What troubles might she find if she and I were more

 than that? And what might the world think of our children, if

 ever that path we walked? Would any society in all the world

 accept them?

    I know how I feel when I look upon her, though, and

 believe that I understand her feelings as well. On that

 level, it seems such an obvious thing, and yet, alas, it

 becomes so very complicated.

    

    -Drizzt Do'Urden

    

                            Chapter 13

                           SECRET WEAPON

  

    You have found the rogue?" Jarlaxle asked Rai'gy

 Bondalek. Kimmuriel Oblodra stood beside the mercenary

 leader, the psionicist appearing unarmed and unarmored,

 seeming perfectly defenseless to one who did not understand

 the powers of his mind.

    "He is with a dwarf, a woman, and a halfling," Rai'gy

 answered. "And sometimes they are joined by a great black

 cat."

    "Guenhwyvar," Jarlaxle explained. "Once the property of

 Masoj Hun'ette. A powerful magical item indeed."

    "But not the greatest magic that they carry," Rai'gy

 informed. "There is another, stored in a pouch on the rogue's

 belt, that radiates magic stronger than all their other

 magics combined. Even through the distance of my scrying it

 beckoned to me, almost as if it were asking me to retrieve it

 from its present unworthy owner."

    "What could it be?" the always opportunistic mercenary

 asked.

    Rai'gy shook his head, his shock of white hair flying

 from side to side. "Like no dweomer I have seen before," he

 admitted.

    "Is that not the way of magic?" Kimmuriel Oblodra put in

 with obvious distaste. "Unknown and uncontrollable."

    Rai'gy shot the psionicist an angry glare, but Jarlaxle,

 more than willing to utilize both magic and psionics, merely

 smiled. "Learn more about it and about them," he instructed

 the wizard-priest. "If it beckons to us, then perhaps we

 would be wise to heed its call. How far are they, and how

 fast can we get to them?"

    "Very," Rai'gy answered. "And very. They had begun an

 overland route but were accosted by giantkind and goblinkin

 at every bend in the path."

    "Perhaps the magical item is not particular about who it

 calls for a new owner," Kimmuriel remarked with obvious

 sarcasm.

    "They turned about and took ship," Rai'gy went on,

 ignoring the comment. "Out of the great northern city of

 Waterdeep, I believe, far, far up the Sword Coast."

    "But sailing south?" Jarlaxle asked hopefully.

    "I believe," Rai'gy answered. "It does not matter. There

 are magics, of course, and mind powers," he added, nodding

 deferentially to Kimmuriel, "that can get us to them as

 easily as if they were standing in the next room."

    "Back to your searching, then," Jarlaxle said.

    "But are we not to visit a guild this very night?" Rai'gy

 asked.

    "You will not be needed," Jarlaxle replied. "Minor guilds

 alone will meet this night."

    "Even minor guilds would be wise to employ wizards," the

 wizard-priest remarked.

    "The wizard of this one is a friend of Entreri," Jarlaxle

 explained with a laugh that made it sound as if it were all

 too easy. "And the other guild is naught but halflings,

 hardly versed in the ways of magic. Tomorrow night you will

 be needed, perhaps. This night continue your examination of

 Drizzt Do'Urden. In the end he will likely prove the most

 important cog of all."

    "Because of the magical item?" Kimmuriel asked.

    "Because of Entreri's lack of interest," Jarlaxle

 replied.

    The wizard-priest shook his head. "We offer him power and

 riches beyond his comprehension," he said. "And yet he leads

 us onward as if he were going into hopeless battle against

 the Spider Queen herself."

    "He cannot appreciate the power or the riches until he

 has resolved an inner conflict," explained Jarlaxle, whose

 greatest gift of all was the ability to get into the minds of

 enemies and friends alike, and not with prying powers, such

 as Kimmuriel Oblodra might use, but with simple empathy and

 understanding. "But fear not his present lack of motivation.

 I know Artemis Entreri well enough to understand that he will

 prove more than effective whether his heart is in the fight

 or not. As humans go I have never met one more dangerous or

 more devious."

    "A pity his skin is so light," Kimmuriel remarked.

    Jarlaxle only smiled. He knew well enough that if Artemis

 Entreri had been born drow in Menzoberranzan the man would

 have been among the greatest of weapon masters, or perhaps he

 would have even exceeded that claim. Perhaps he would have

 been a rival to Jarlaxle for control of Bregan D'aerthe.

    "We will speak in the comfortable darkness of the tunnels

 when the shining hellfire rises into the too-high sky," he

 said to Rai'gy. "Have more answers for me."

    "Fare well with the guilds," Rai'gy answered, and with a

 bow he turned and left.

    Jarlaxle turned to Kimmuriel and nodded. It was time to

 go hunting.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    With their cherubic faces, halflings were regarded by the

 other races as creatures with large eyes, but how much wider

 those eyes became for the four in the room with Dwahvel when

 a magical portal opened right before them (despite the usual

 precautions against such magical intrusion), and Artemis

 Entreri stepped into the room. The assassin cut an impressive

 figure in a layered black coat and a black bolero, banded

 about the base of its riser in blacker silk.

    Entreri assumed a strong, hands-on-hips pose just as

 Kimmuriel had taught him, holding steady against the waves of

 disorientation that always accompanied such psionic

 dimensional travel.

    Behind him, in the chamber on the other side of the door,

 a room lightless save that spilling in through the gate from

 Dwahvel's chamber, huddled a few dark shapes. When one of the

 halfling soldiers moved to meet the intruder, one of those

 dark shapes shifted slightly, and the halfling, with hardly a

 squeak, toppled to the floor.

    "He is sleeping and otherwise unharmed," Entreri quickly

 explained, not wanting a fight with the others, who were

 scrambling about for weapons. "I did not come here for a

 fight, I assure you, but I can leave all of you dead in my

 wake if you insist upon one."

    "You could have used the front door," Dwahvel, the only

 one appearing unshaken, remarked dryly.

    "I did not wish to be seen entering your establishment,"

 the assassin, fully oriented once more, explained. "For your

 protection."

    "And what form of entrance is this?" Dwahvel asked.

 "Magical and unbidden, yet none of my wards-and I paid well

 for them, I assure you-offered resistance."

    "No magic that will concern you," Entreri replied, "but

 that will surely concern my enemies. Know that I did not

 return to Calimport to lurk in shadows at the bidding of

 others. I have traveled the Realms extensively and have

 brought back with me that which I have learned."

    "So Artemis Entreri returns as the conqueror," Dwahvel

 remarked. Beside her the soldiers bristled, but Dwahvel did

 well to hold them in check. Now that Entreri was among them,

 to fight him would cost her dearly, she realized.

    Very dearly.

    "Perhaps," Entreri conceded. "We shall see how it goes."

    "It will take more than a display of teleportation to

 convince me to throw the weight of my guild behind you,"

 Dwahvel said calmly. "To choose wrongly in such a war would

 prove fatal."

    "I do not wish you to choose at all," Entreri assured

 her.

    Dwahvel eyed him suspiciously, then turned to each of her

 trusted guards. They, too, wore doubting expressions.

    "Then why bother to come to me?" she asked.

    "To inform you that a war is about to begin," Entreri

 answered. "I owe you that much, at least."

    "And perhaps you wish for me to open wide my ears that

 you may learn how goes the fight," the sly halfling reasoned.

    "As you wish," Entreri replied. "When this is finished,

 and I have found control, I will not forget all that you have

 already done for me."

    "And if you lose?"

    Entreri laughed. "Be wary," he said. "And, for your

 health, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, be neutral. I owe you and see

 our friendship as to the benefit of both, but if I learn that

 you betray me by word or by deed, I will bring your house

 down around you." With that, he gave a polite bow, a tip of

 the black bolero and slipped back through the portal.

    One globe of darkness after another filled Dwahvel's

 chamber, forcing her and the three standing soldiers to crawl

 about helplessly until one found the normal exit and called

 the others to him.

    Finally the darkness abated, and the halflings dared to

 re-enter, to find their sleeping companion snoring

 contentedly, and then to find, upon searching the body, a

 small dart stuck into his shoulder.

    "Entreri has friends," one of them remarked.

    Dwahvel merely nodded, not surprised and glad indeed at

 that moment that she had previously chosen to help the

 outcast assassin. He was not a man Dwahvel Tiggerwillies

 wished for an enemy.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Ah, but you make my life so dangerous," LaValle said

 with an exaggerated sigh when Entreri, unannounced and

 uninvited, walked from thin air, it seemed, into LaValle's

 private room.

    "Well done-on your escape from Kadran Gordeon, I mean,"

 LaValle went on when Entreri didn't immediately respond. The

 wizard was trying hard to appear collected. Hadn't Entreri

 slipped into his guarded room twice before, after all? But

 this time- and the assassin recognized it splayed on

 LaValle's face-he had truly surprised the wizard. Bodeau had

 sharpened up the defenses of his guild house amazingly well

 against both magical and physical intrusion. As much as he

 respected Entreri, LaValle had obviously not expected the

 assassin to get through so easily.

    "Not so difficult a task, I assure you," the assassin

 replied, keeping his voice steady so that his words sounded

 as simple fact and not a boast. "I have traveled the world,

 and under the world and have witnessed powers very different

 from anything experienced in Calimport. Powers that will

 bring me that which I desire."

    LaValle sat on an old and comfortable chair, planting one

 elbow on the worn arm and dropping his head sidelong against

 his open palm. What was it about this man, he wondered, that

 so mocked all the ordinary trappings of power? He looked all

 around at his room, at the many carved statues, gargoyles,

 and exotic birds, at the assortment of finely carved staves,

 some magical, some not, at the three skulls grinning from the

 cubbies atop his desk, at the crystal ball set upon the small

 table across the way. These were his items of power, items

 gained through a lifetime of work, items that he could use to

 destroy or at least to defend against, any single man he had

 ever met.

    Except for one. What was it about this one? The way he

 stood? The way he moved? The simple aura of power that

 surrounded him, as tangible as the gray cloak and black

 bolero he now wore?

    "Go and bring Quentin Bodeau," Entreri instructed.

    "He will not appreciate becoming involved."

    "He already is," Entreri assured the wizard. "Now he must

 choose."

    "Between you and ... ?" LaValle asked.

    "The rest of them," Entreri replied calmly.

    LaValle tilted his head curiously. "You mean to do battle

 with all of Calimport then?" he asked skeptically.

    "With all in Calimport who oppose me," Entreri said,

 again with the utmost calm.

    LaValle shook his head, not knowing what to make of it

 all. He trusted Entreri's judgment-never had the wizard met a

 more cunning and controlled man-but the assassin spoke

 foolishness, it seemed, if he honestly believed he could

 stand alone against the likes of the Basadonis, let alone the

 rest of Calimport's street powers.

    But still...

    "Shall I bring Chalsee Anguaine, as well?" the wizard

 asked, standing and heading for the door.

    "Chalsee has already been shown the futility of

 resistance," Entreri replied.

    LaValle stopped abruptly, turning on the assassin as if

 betrayed.

    "I knew you would go along," Entreri explained. "For you

 have come to know and love me as a brother. The lieutenant's

 mind-set, however, remained a mystery. He had to be

 convinced, or removed."

    LaValle just stared at him, awaiting the verdict.

    "He is convinced," Entreri remarked, moving to fall

 comfortably into LaValle's comfortable chair. "Very much so.

    "And so," he continued as the wizard again started for

 the door, "will you find Bodeau."

    LaValle turned on him again.

    "He will make the right choice," Entreri assured the man.

    "Will he have a choice?" LaValle dared to ask.

    "Of course not."

    Indeed, when LaValle found Bodeau in his private quarters

 and informed him that Artemis Entreri had come again the

 guildmaster blanched white and trembled so violently that

 LaValle feared he would simply fall over dead on the floor.

    "You have spoken with Chalsee then?" LaValle asked.

    "Evil days," Bodeau replied, and moving as if he had to

 battle mind with muscle through every pained step, he headed

 for the corridor.

    "Evil days?" LaValle echoed incredulously under his

 breath. What in all the Realms could prompt the master of a

 murderous guild to make such a statement? Suddenly taking

 Entreri's claims more seriously, the wizard fell into step

 behind Bodeau. He noted, his intrigue mounting ever higher,

 that the guildmaster ordered no soldiers to follow or even to

 flank.

    Bodeau stopped outside the wizard's door, letting LaValle

 assume the lead into the room. There in the study sat

 Entreri, exactly as the wizard had left him. The assassin

 appeared totally unprepared had Bodeau decided to attack

 instead of parlay, as if he had known without doubt that

 Bodeau wouldn't dare oppose him.

    "What do you demand of me?" Bodeau asked before LaValle

 could find any opening to the obviously awkward situation.

    "I have decided to begin with the Basadonis," Entreri

 calmly replied. "For they, after all, started this fight.

 You, then, must locate all of their soldiers, all of their

 fronts, and a complete layout of their operation, not

 including the guild house."

    "I offer to tell no one that you came here and to promise

 that my soldiers will not interfere," Bodeau countered.

    "Your soldiers could not interfere," Entreri shot back, a

 flash of anger crossing his black eyes.

    LaValle watched in continued amazement as Quentin Bodeau

 fought so very hard to control his shaking.

    "And we will not," the guildmaster offered.

    "I have told you the terms of your survival," Entreri

 said, a coldness creeping into his voice that made LaValle

 believe that Bodeau and all the guild would be murdered that

 very night if the guildmaster didn't agree. "What say you?"

    "I will consider-"

    "Now."

    Bodeau glared at LaValle, as if blaming the wizard for

 ever allowing Artemis Entreri into his life, a sentiment that

 LaValle, as unnerved as Bodeau, could surely understand.

    "You ask me to go against the most powerful pashas of the

 streets," Bodeau said, trying hard to find some courage.

    "Choose," Entreri said.

    A long, uncomfortable moment slipped past. "I will see

 what my soldiers may discern," Bodeau promised. "Very wise,"

 said Entreri. "Now leave us. I wish a word with LaValle."

    More than happy to be away from the man, Bodeau turned on

 his heel and after another hateful glare at LaValle, swiftly

 exited the room.

    "I do not begin to guess what tricks you have brought

 with you," LaValle said to Entreri.

    "I have been to Menzoberranzan," Entreri admitted. "The

 city of the drow."

    LaValle's eyes widened, his mouth drooping open. "I

 returned with more than trinkets." "You have allied with ..."

    "You are the only one I have told and the only one I

 shall tell," Entreri announced. "Understand the

 responsibility that goes with such knowledge. It is one that

 I shan't take lightly."

    "But Chalsee Anguaine?" LaValle asked. "You said he had

 been convinced."

    "A friend found his mind and there put images too

 horrible for him to resist," Entreri explained. "Chalsee

 knows not the truth, only that to resist would bring about a

 fate too terrible to consider. When he reported to Bodeau his

 terror was sincere."

    "And where do I stand in your grand plans?" the wizard

 asked, trying very hard not to sound sarcastic. "If Bodeau

 fails you, then what of LaValle?"

    "I will show you a way out should that come to pass,"

 Entreri promised, walking over to the desk. "I owe you that

 much at least." He picked up a small dagger LaValle had set

 there to cut seals on parchments or to prick a finger when a

 spell called for a component of blood.

    LaValle understood then that Entreri was being pragmatic,

 not merciful. If the wizard was indeed spared should Bodeau

 fail the assassin, it would only be because Entreri had some

 use for him.

    "You are surprised that the guildmaster so readily

 complied," Entreri said evenly. "You must understand his

 choice: to risk that I will fail and the Basadonis will win

 out and then exact revenge on my allies . . . or to die now,

 this very night, and horribly, I assure you."

    LaValle forced an expressionless set to his visage,

 playing the role of complete neutrality, even detachment.

    "You have much work ahead of you, I assume," Entreri

 said, and he flicked his wrist, sending the dagger soaring

 past the wizard to knock heavily into the outside wall. "I

 take my leave."

    Indeed, as the signal knock against the wall sounded,

 Kimmuriel Oblodra went into his contemplation again and

 brought up another dimensional pathway for the assassin to

 make his exit.

    LaValle saw the portal open and thought for a moment out

 of sheer curiosity to leap through it beside Entreri to

 unmask this great mystery.

    Good sense overruled curiosity.

    And then the wizard was alone and very glad of it.

    "I do not understand," Rai'gy Bondalek said when Entreri

 rejoined him, Jarlaxle, and Kimmuriel in the complex of

 tunnels beneath the city that the drow had made their own. He

 remembered then to speak more slowly, for Entreri, while

 fairly proficient in the drow language, was not completely

 fluent, and the wizard-priest didn't want to bother with the

 human tongue at all, either by learning it or by wasting the

 energy necessary to enact a spell that would allow them all

 to understand each other, whatever language each of them

 chose to speak. In truth, Bondalek's decision to force the

 discussion to continue in the drow language, even when

 Entreri was with them, was more a choice to keep the human

 assassin somewhat off-balance. "It seems, from all you

 previously said that the halflings would be better suited and

 more easily convinced to perform the services you just put

 upon Quentin Bodeau."

    "I doubt not Dwahvel's loyalty," Entreri replied in the

 human Calimport tongue, and he eyed Rai'gy with every word.

    The wizard turned a curious and helpless look over

 Jarlaxle, and the mercenary, with a laugh at the pettiness of

 it all, produced an orb from an inside fold of his cloak,

 held it aloft, and spoke a word of command. Now they would

 all understand.

    "To herself and her well-being, I mean," Entreri said,

 again in the human tongue, though Rai'gy heard it in drow.

 "She is no threat."

    "And pitiful Quentin Bodeau and his lackey wizard are?"

 Rai'gy asked incredulously, Jarlaxle's enchantment reversing

 the effect, so that, while the drow spoke in his native

 tongue, Entreri heard it in his own.

    "Do not underestimate the power of Bodeau's guild,"

 Entreri warned. "They are firmly entrenched, with eyes ever

 outward."

    "So you force his loyalty early," Jarlaxle agreed, that

 he cannot later claim ignorance whatever the outcome."

    "And where from here?" Kimmuriel asked.

    "We secure the Basadoni Guild," Entreri explained. "That

 then becomes our base of power, with both Dwahvel and Bodeau

 watching to make certain that the others aren't aligning

 against us."

    "And from there?" Kimmuriel pressed.

    Entreri smiled and looked to Jarlaxle, and the mercenary

 leader recognized that Entreri understood that Kimmuriel was

 asking the questions as Jarlaxle had bade him to ask.

    "From there we will see what opportunities present

 themselves," Jarlaxle answered before Entreri could reply.

 "Perhaps that base will prove solid enough. Perhaps not."

    Later on, after Entreri had left them, Jarlaxle, with

 some pride, turned to his two cohorts. "Did I not choose

 well?" he asked.

    "He thinks like a drow," Rai'gy replied, offering as high

 a compliment as Jarlaxle had ever heard him give to a human

 or to anyone else who was not drow. "Though I wish he would

 better learn our language and our sign language."

    Jarlaxle, so pleased with the progress, only laughed.

    

                            Chapter 14

                            REPUTATION

  

    The man felt strange indeed. Alcohol dimmed his senses so

 that he could not register all the facts about his current

 situation. He felt light, floating, and felt a burning in his

 chest.

    Wulfgar clenched his fist more tightly, grasping the

 front of the man's tunic and pulling chest hairs from their

 roots in the process. With just that one arm the barbarian

 easily held the two hundred pound man off the ground. Using

 his other arm to navigate the crowd in the Cutlass, he made

 his way for the door. He hated taking this roundabout route-

 previously he had merely tossed unruly drunks through a

 window or a wall-but Arumn Gardpeck had quickly reigned in

 that behavior, promising to take the cost of damages out of

 Wulfgar's pay.

    Even a single window could cost the barbarian a few

 bottles, and if the frame went with it Wulfgar might not find

 any drink for a week.

    The man, smiling stupidly, looked at Wulfgar and finally

 managed to find some focus. Recognition of the bouncer and of

 his present predicament at last showed on his face. "Hey!" he

 complained, but then he was flying, flat out in the air, arms

 and legs flailing. He landed facedown in the muddy road, and

 there he stayed. Likely a wagon would have run him over had

 not a couple of passersby taken pity on the poor slob and

 dragged him into the gutter ... taking the rest of his coins

 from him in the process.

    "Fifteen feet," Josi Puddles said to Arumn, estimating

 the length of the drunk's flight. "And with just one arm."

    "I told ye he was a strong one," Arumn replied, wiping

 the bar and pretending that he was hardly amazed. In the

 weeks since the barkeep had hired Wulfgar, the barbarian had

 made many such throws.

    "Every man on Half Moon Street's talking about that,"

 Josi added, the tone of his voice somewhat grim. "I been

 noticing that your crowd's a bit tougher every night this

 week."

    Arumn understood the perceptive man's less than subtle

 statement. There was a pecking order in Luskan's underbelly

 that resisted intrusion. As Wulfgar's reputation continued to

 grow, some of those higher on that pecking order would find

 their own reputations at stake and would filter in to mend

 the damage.

    "You like the barbarian," Josi stated as much as asked.

    Arumn, staring hard at Wulfgar as the huge man filtered

 through the crowd once more, gave a resigned nod. Hiring

 Wulfgar had been a matter of business, not friendship, and

 Arumn usually took great pains to avoid any personal

 relationships with his bouncers- since many of those men,

 drifters by nature, either wandered away of their own accord

 or angered the wrong thug and wound up dead at Arumn's

 doorstep. With Wulfgar, though, the barkeep had lost some of

 that perspective. Their late nights together when the Cutlass

 was quiet, Wulfgar drinking at the bar, Arumn preparing the

 place for the next day's business, had become a pleasant

 routine. Arumn truly enjoyed Wulfgar's companionship. He

 discovered that once the drink was in the man, Wulfgar let

 down his cold and distant facade. Many nights they stayed

 together until the dawn, Arumn listening intently as Wulfgar

 wove tales of the frigid northland, of Icewind Dale, and of

 friends and enemies alike that made the barkeep's hair stand

 up on the back of his neck. Arumn had heard the story of Akar

 Kessel and the crystal shard so many times that he could

 almost picture the avalanche at Kelvin's Cairn that took down

 the wizard and buried the ancient and evil relic.

    And every time Wulfgar recounted tales of the dark

 tunnels under the dwarven kingdom of Mithral Hall and the

 coming of the dark elves, Arumn later found himself shivering

 under his blankets, as he had when he was a child and his

 father had told him similarly dark stories by the hearth.

    Indeed, Arumn Gardpeck had come to like his newest

 employee more than he should and less than he would.

    "Then calm him," Josi Puddles finished. "He'll be

 bringing in Morik the Rogue and Tree Block Breaker anytime

 soon."

    Arumn shuddered at the thought and didn't disagree.

 Particularly concerning Tree Block. Morik the Rogue, he knew,

 would be a bit more cautious (and thus, would be much more

 dangerous), would spend weeks, even months, sizing up the new

 threat before making his move, but brash Tree Block, arguably

 the toughest human-if he even was human, for many stories

 said that he had more than a little ore, or even ogre, blood

 in him-ever to step into Luskan, would not be so patient.

    "Wulfgar," the barkeep called.

    The big man sifted through the crowd to stand opposite

 Arumn.

    "Did ye have to throw him out?" Arumn asked.

    "He put his hand where it did not belong," Wulfgar

 replied absently. "Delly wanted him gone."

    Arumn followed Wulfgar's gaze across the room to Delly...

 Delenia Curtie. Though not yet past her twentieth birthday,

 she had worked in the Cutlass for several years. She was a

 wisp of a thing, barely five feet tall and so slender that

 many thought she had a bit of elven blood in her-though it

 was more the result of drinking elven spirits, Arumn knew.

 Her blond hair hung untrimmed and unkempt and often not very

 clean. Her brown eyes had long ago lost their soft innocence

 and taken on a harder edge, and her pale skin had not seen

 enough of the sun in years, nor proper nutrition, and was now

 dry and rough. Her step had replaced the bounce of youth with

 the caution of a woman often hunted. But still there remained

 a charm about Delly, a sensual wickedness that many of the

 patrons, particularly after a few drinks, found too tempting

 to resist.

    "If ye're to be killing every man who's grabbing Delly's

 bottom, I'll have no patrons left within the week," Arumn

 said dryly.

    "Just push them out," Arumn continued when Wulfgar

 offered no response, not even a change of expression. "Ye

 don't have to be throwing them halfway to Waterdeep." He

 motioned back to the crowd, indicating that he was done with

 the barbarian.

    Wulfgar walked away, back to his duties sifting through

 the boisterous bunch.

    Within an hour another man, bleeding from his nose and

 mouth, took the aerial route, this time a two-handed toss

 that put him almost to the other side of the street.

    Wulfgar held up his shirt, revealing the jagged line of

 deep scars. "Had me up in its mouth," he explained grimly,

 slurring the words. It had taken more than a little of the

 potent spirits to bring him to a level of comfort where he

 could discuss this battle, the fight with the yochlol, the

 fight that had brought him to Lolth, and she to Errtu for his

 years of torment. "A mouse in the cat's mouth." He gave a

 slight chuckle. "But this mouse had a kick."

    His gaze drifted to Aegis-fang, lying on the bar a couple

 of feet away.

    "Prettiest hammer I've ever seen," remarked Josi Puddles.

 He reached for it tentatively, staring at Wulfgar as his hand

 inched in, for he, like all the others, had no desire to

 anger the frightfully dangerous man.

    But Wulfgar, usually very protective of Aegis-fang, his

 sole link to his past life, wasn't even watching. His

 recounting of the yochlol fight had sent his thoughts and his

 heart careening back across the years, had locked him into a

 replay of the events that had put him in living hell.

    "And how it hurt," he said softly, voice quavering, one

 hand subconsciously running the length of the scar.

    Arumn Gardpeck stood before him staring, but though

 Wulfgar's eyes aimed at those of the barkeep, their focus was

 far, far away. Arumn slid another drink before the man, but

 Wulfgar didn't notice. With a deep and profound sigh the

 barbarian dropped his head into his huge arms, seeking the

 comfort of blackness.

    He felt a touch on his bare arm, gentle and soft, and

 turned his head so that he could regard Delly. She nodded to

 Arumn, then gently pulled Wulfgar, coaxing him to rise and

 leading him away.

    Wulfgar awoke later that night, long and slanted rays of

 moonlight filtering into the room through the western window.

 It took him a few moments to orient himself and to realize

 that this was not his room, for his room had no windows.

    He glanced around and then to the blankets beside him, to

 the lithe form of Delly amidst those blankets, her skin

 seeming soft and delicate in the flattering light.

    Then he remembered. Delly had taken him from the bar to

 bed-not to his own, but to hers-and he remembered all they

 had done.

    Fearful, recalling his less-than-tender parting with

 Catti-brie, Wulfgar gently reached over and put his hand

 about the woman's neck, sighing in profound relief to find

 that she still had a pulse. Then he turned her over and

 scanned her bare body, not in any lustful way, but merely to

 see if she showed any bruises, any signs that he had

 brutalized her.

    Her sleep was quiet and sound.

    Wulfgar turned to the side of the bed, rolling his legs

 off the edge. He started to stand, but his throbbing head

 nearly knocked him backward. Reeling, he fought to control

 his balance and then ambled over to the window, staring out

 at the setting moon.

    Catti-brie was likely watching that same moon, he

 thought, and somehow knew it to be true. After a while he

 turned to regard Delly again, all soft and snuggled amidst

 mounds of blankets. He had been able to make love to her

 without the anger, without the memories of the succubi

 balling his fists in rage. For a moment he felt as if he

 might be free, felt as if he should burst out of the house,

 out of Luskan altogether, running down the road in search of

 his old friends. He looked back at the moon and thought of

 Catti-brie and how wonderful it would be to fall into her

 arms.

    But then he realized the truth of it all.

    The drink had allowed him to build a wall against those

 memories, and behind that protective barrier he had been able

 to live in the present and not the past.

    "Come on back to bed," came Belly's voice behind him, a

 gentle coax with a subtle promise of sensual pleasure. "And

 don't you be worrying over your hammer," she added, turning

 so that Wulfgar could follow her gaze to the opposite wall,

 against which Aegis-fang rested.

    Wulfgar spent a long moment regarding the woman,

 caretaker of his emotions and his possessions. She was

 sitting up, the covers bundled about her waist, and making no

 move to cover her nakedness. Indeed she seemed to flaunt it a

 bit to entice the man back into her bed,

    A large part of Wulfgar did want to go to her. But he

 resisted, realizing the danger, realizing that the drink had

 worn off. In a fit of passion, a fit of remembered rage, how

 easy it would be for him to squeeze her bird-like neck.

    "Later," he promised, moving to gather his clothes.

 "Before we go to work this night."

    "But you don't have to leave."

    "I do," he said briskly, and he saw the flash of pain

 across her face. He moved to her immediately, very close. "I

 do," he repeated in a softer tone. "But I will come back to

 you. Later."

    He kissed her gently on the forehead and started for the

 door.

    "You are thinking that I'll want you back," came a harsh

 call behind him, and he turned to see Delly staring at him,

 her gaze ice cold, her arms folded defensively across her

 chest.

    At first surprised, Wulfgar only then realized that he

 wasn't the only one in this room carrying around personal

 demons.

    "Go," Delly said to him. "Maybe I'll take you back, and

 maybe I'll find another. All the same to me."

    Wulfgar sighed and shook his head, then pushed out into

 the hall, more than happy to be out of that room.

    The sun peeked over the eastern rim before the barbarian,

 an empty bottle at his side, found his way back into the void

 of sleep. He didn't see the sunrise, though, for his room had

 no windows.

    He preferred it that way.

    

                            Chapter 15

                      THE CALL OF CRENSHINIBON

  

    The prow cut swiftly through the azure blanket of the

 Sword Coast, shooting great fins of water and launching spray

 high into the air. At the forward rail, Catti-brie felt the

 stinging, salty droplets, so cold in contrast to the heat of

 the brilliant sun on her fair face. The ship, Quester, sailed

 south, and so south the woman looked. Away from Icewind Dale,

 away from Luskan, away from Waterdeep, from which they had

 sailed three days previous.

    Away from Wulfgar.

    Not for the first time, and she knew not for the last,

 the woman reconsidered their decision to let the beleaguered

 barbarian go off on his own. In his present state of mind, a

 state of absolute tumult and confusion, how could Wulfgar not

 need them?

    And yet she had no way to get to him now, sailing south

 along the Sword Coast. Catti-brie blinked away moisture that

 was not sea spray and set her gaze firmly on the wide waters

 before them, taking some heart at the sheer speed of the

 vessel. They had a mission to complete, a vital mission, for

 during their days crossing by land they had come to learn

 beyond doubt that Crenshinibon remained a potent foe,

 sentient and intelligent. It was able to call in creatures to

 serve as its minions, monsters of dark heart eager to grasp

 at the promises of the relic. Thus the friends had gone to

 Waterdeep and had taken passage on the sturdiest available

 ship in the harbor, believing that enemies would be fewer at

 sea and far easier to discern. Both Drizzt and Catti-brie

 greatly lamented that Captain Deudermont and his wondrous Sea

 Sprite were not in.

    Less than two hours out from port one of the crewmen had

 come after Drizzt, thinking to steal the crystal. Battered by

 the flat sides of flashing twin scimitars, the man, bound and

 gagged, had been handed off to another ship passing by,

 heading to the north to Waterdeep, with instructions to turn

 him over to the dock authorities in that lawful city for

 proper punishment.

    Since then, though, the voyage had been uneventful, just

 swift sailing and empty waters, flat horizons dotted rarely

 by the sails of another distant ship.

    Drizzt moved to join Catti-brie at the rail. Though she

 didn't turn around, she knew by the footsteps that followed

 the near-silent drow that Bruenor and Regis had come too.

    "Only a few more days to Baldur's Gate," the drow said.

    Catti-brie glanced over at him, noting that he kept the

 cowl of his traveling cloak low over his face-not to block

 any of the stinging spray, she knew, for Drizzt loved that

 feel as much as she, but to keep him in comfortable shade.

 Drizzt and Catti-brie had spent years together aboard

 Deudermont's Sea Sprite, and still the high sun of midday

 glittering off the waters bothered the drow elf, whose

 heritage had designed him for walking lightless caverns.

    "How fares Bruenor?" the woman asked quietly, pretending

 not to know that the dwarf was standing behind her.

    "Grumbling for solid ground and all the enemies in the

 world to stand against him, if necessary, to get him off this

 cursed floating coffin," the ranger replied, playing along.

    Catti-brie managed a slight grin, not surprised at all.

 She had journeyed the seas with Bruenor farther to the south.

 While the dwarf had kept a stoic front on that occasion, his

 relief had been obvious when they had at last docked and

 returned again to solid ground. This time Bruenor was having

 an even worse time of it, spending long stretches at the

 rail-and not for the view.

    "Regis seems unbothered," Drizzt went on. "He makes

 certain that no food remains on Bruenor's plate soon after

 Bruenor declares that he cannot eat."

    Another smile found its way onto Catti-brie's face. Again

 it was short-lived. "Do ye think we'll be seeing him again?"

 she asked.

    Drizzt sighed and turned his gaze out to the empty

 waters. Though they were both looking south, the wrong

 direction, they were both, in a manner of speaking, looking

 for Wulfgar. It was as if, against all logic and reason, they

 expected the man to come swimming toward them.

    "I do not know," the drow admitted. "In his mood, it is

 possible that Wulfgar has found many enemies and has flung

 himself against them with all his heart. No doubt many of

 them are dead, but the north is a place of countless foes,

 some, I fear, too powerful even for Wulfgar."

    "Bah!" Bruenor snorted from behind. "We'll find me boy,

 don't ye doubt. And the worst foe he'll be seeing'll be

 meself, paying him back for slapping me girl and for bringing

 me so much worry!"

    "We shall find him," Regis declared. "And Lady Alustriel

 will help, and so will the Harpells."

    The mention of the Harpells brought a groan from Bruenor.

 The Harpells were a family of eccentric wizards known for

 blowing themselves and their friends up, turning themselves-

 quite by accident and without repair-into various animals and

 all other manner of self-inflicted catastrophes.

    "Alustriel, then," Regis agreed. "She will help if we

 cannot find him on our own."

    "Bah! And how tough're ye thinking that to be?" Bruenor

 argued. "Are ye knowin' many rampaging seven-footers then?

 And them carrying hammers that can knock down a giant or the

 house it's living in with one throw?"

    "There," Drizzt said to Catti-brie. "Our assurances that

 we will indeed find our friend."

    The woman managed another smile, but it, too, was a

 strained thing and could not last. And what would they find

 when they at last located their missing friend? Even if he

 was physically unharmed, would he wish to see them? And even

 if he did, would he be in a better humor? And most important

 of all, would they- would she-really wish to see him? Wulfgar

 had hurt Catti-brie badly, not in body, but in heart, when he

 had struck her. She could forgive him that, she knew, to some

 extent at least.

    But only once.

    She studied her drow friend, saw his shadowed profile

 under the edge of his cowl as he stared vacantly to the empty

 waters, his lavender eyes glazed, as if his mind were looking

 elsewhere. She turned to consider Bruenor and Regis then and

 found them similarly distracted. All of them wanted to find

 Wulfgar again-not the Wulfgar who had left them on the road

 but the one who had left them those years ago in the tunnels

 beneath Mithral Hall, taken by the yochlol. They all wanted

 it to be as it had once been, the Companions of the Hall

 adventuring together without the company of brooding internal

 demons.

    "A sail to the south," Drizzt remarked, drawing the woman

 from her contemplation. Even as Catti-brie looked out from

 the rail, squinting in a futile attempt to spot the too-

 distant ship, she heard the cry from the crow's nest

 confirming the drow's claim.

    "What's her course?" Captain Vaines called from somewhere

 near the middle of the deck.

    "North," Drizzt answered quietly so that only Catti-brie,

 Bruenor, and Regis could hear.

    "North," cried the crewman from the crow's nest a few

 seconds later.

    "Yer eyes've improved in the sunlight," Bruenor remarked.

    "Credit Deudermont," Catti-brie explained.

    "My eyes," Drizzt added, "and my perceptions of intent."

    "What're ye babbling about?" Bruenor asked, but the

 ranger held up his hand, motioning for silence. He stood

 staring intently at the distant ship whose sails now appeared

 to the other three as tiny black dots, barely above the

 horizon.

    "Go and tell Captain Vaines to turn us to the west,"

 Drizzt instructed Regis.

    The halfling stood staring for just a moment, then rushed

 back to find Vaines. Just a minute or so later the friends

 felt the pull as Quester leaned and turned her prow to the

 left.

    "Ye're just making the trip longer," Bruenor started to

 complain, but again Drizzt held up his hand.

    "She is turning with us, keeping her course to

 intercept," the drow explained.

    "Pirates?" Catti-brie asked, a question echoed by Captain

 Vaines as he moved up to join the others.

    "They are not in trouble, for they cut the water as

 swiftly as we, perhaps even more so," Drizzt reasoned. "Nor

 are they a ship of a king's fleet, for they fly no standard,

 and we are too far out for any coastal patrollers."

    "Pirates," Captain Vaines spat distastefully.

    "How can ye know all that?" an unconvinced Bruenor

 demanded.

    "Comes from hunting 'em," Catti-brie explained. "And

 we've hunted more than our share."

    "So I heard in Waterdeep," said Vaines, which was why he

 had agreed to take them aboard for a swift run to Baldur's

 Gate in the first place. Normally a woman, a dwarf, and a

 halfling would find no easy-and surely no cheap-passage out

 of Waterdeep Harbor when accompanied by a dark elf, but among

 the honest sailors of Waterdeep the names Drizzt Do'Urden and

 Catti-brie rang out as sweet music.

    The approaching ship showed bigger on the horizon now,

 but it was still too small for any detailed images-except to

 Drizzt, and to Captain Vaines and the man in the crow's nest,

 both holding rare and expensive spyglasses. The captain put

 his to his eye now and recognized the telltale triangular

 sails. "She's a schooner," he said. "And a light one. She

 cannot hold more than twenty or so and is no match for us."

    Catti-brie considered the words carefully. Quester was a

 caravel, and a large one at that. She held three strong banks

 of sails and had a front end long and tapered to aid in her

 run, but she carried a pair of ballistae, and had thick and

 strong sides. A slender schooner did not seem much of a match

 for Quester, to be sure, but how many pirates had said the

 same about another schooner, Deudermont's Sea Sprite, only to

 wind up fast filling with sea water?

    "Back to the south with us!" the captain called, and

 Quester creaked and leaned to the right. Soon enough, the

 approaching schooner corrected her course to maintain her

 intercepting route.

    'Too far to the north," Vaines remarked, striking a

 pensive pose, one hand coming up to stroke the gray hairs of

 his beard. "Pirates should not be this far north and should

 not deign to approach us."

    The others, particularly Drizzt and Catti-brie,

 understood his trepidation. Concerning brute force at least,

 the schooner and her crew of twenty, perhaps thirty, would

 seem no match for the sixty of Vaines's crew. But such odds

 could often be overcome at sea by use of a single wizard,

 Catti-brie and Drizzt both knew. They had seen Sea Sprite's

 wizard, a powerful invoker named Robillard, take down more

 than one ship single-handedly long before conventional

 weapons had even been used.

    "Shouldn't and aren't ain't the same word," Bruenor

 remarked dryly. "I'm not knowing if they're pirates or not,

 but they're coming, to be sure."

    Vaines nodded and moved back to the wheel with his

 navigator.

    "I'll get me bow and go up to the nest," Catti-brie

 offered.

    "Pick your shots well," Drizzt replied. "Likely there is

 one, or maybe a couple, who are guiding this ship. If you can

 find them and down them, the rest might flee."

    "Is that the way of pirates?" Regis asked, seeming more

 than a little confused. "If they even are pirates?"

    "That is the way of a lesser ship coming after us because

 of the crystal shard," Drizzt replied, and then the other two

 caught on.

    "Ye're thinking the damned thing's calling them?" Bruenor

 asked.

    "Pirates take few chances," Drizzt explained. "A light

 schooner coming after Quester is taking a great chance."

    "Unless they got wizards," Bruenor reasoned, for he, too,

 had understood Captain Vaines's concerns.

    Drizzt was shaking his head before the dwarf ever

 finished. Catti-brie would have been, too, except that she

 had already run off to retrieve Taulmaril. "A pirate running

 with enough magical aid to destroy Quester would have long

 ago been marked," the drow explained. "We would have heard of

 her and been warned of her before we ever left Waterdeep."

    "Unless she is new to the trade or new of the power,"

 Regis reasoned.

    Drizzt conceded the point with a nod, but he remained

 unconvinced, believing that Crenshinibon had brought this new

 enemy in, as it had brought in so many others in a desperate

 attempt to wrest the relic away from those who would see it

 destroyed. The drow looked back across the deck, spotting the

 familiar form of Catti-brie with Taulmaril, the wondrous

 Heart-seeker, strapped across her back as she made her nimble

 way up the knotted rope.

    Then he opened his belt pouch and gazed upon the wicked

 relic, Crenshinibon. How he wished he could hear its call to

 better understand the enemies it would bring before them.

    Quester shuddered suddenly as one of its great ballistae

 let fly. The huge spear leaped away, skipping a couple times

 across the water far short of the out-of-range schooner, but

 close enough to let the sailors aboard her recognize that

 Quester had no intention of parlay or surrender.

    But the schooner flew on without the slightest course

 change, splitting the water right beside the spent ballista

 bolt, even clipping the metal-tipped spear as it hung buoy-

 like in the swelling sea. Smooth and swift was its run,

 seeming more like an arrow cutting the air than a ship

 cutting the water. The narrow hull had been built purely for

 speed. Drizzt had seen pirates such as this; often similar

 ships had led Sea Sprite, also a schooner, but a three-master

 and much larger, on long pursuits. The drow had enjoyed those

 chases most of all during his time with Deudermont, sails

 full of wind, spray rushing past, his white hair flowing out

 behind him as he stood poised at the forward rail.

    He was not enjoying this scenario, though. There were

 many pirates along the Sword Coast well capable of destroying

 Quester, larger and better armed and armored than the well-

 structured caravel, truly the hunting lions of the region.

 But this approaching ship was more a bird of prey, a swift

 and cunning hunter designed for smaller quarry, for fishing

 boats wandering too far from protected harbors or the luxury

 barges of wealthy merchants who let their warship escorts get

 a bit too far away from them. Or pirate schooners would work

 in conjunction, several on a target, a fleet hunting pack.

    But no other sails were to be seen on any horizon.

    From a different pouch, Drizzt took out his onyx

 figurine. "I will bring in Guenhwyvar soon," he explained to

 Regis and Bruenor. Captain Vaines came up again, a nervous

 expression stamped on his face-one that told the drow that,

 despite his many years at sea, Vaines had not seen much

 battle. "With a proper run the panther can leap fifty feet or

 more to gain the deck of our enemies' ship. Once there she

 will make more than a few call for a retreat."

    "I have heard of your panther friend," Vaines said. "She

 was much the talk of Waterdeep Harbor."

    "Ye better bring the damned cat up soon then," Bruenor

 grumbled, looking out over the rail. Indeed, the schooner

 already seemed much closer, speeding over the waves.

    To Drizzt the image struck him as purely out of control;

 suicidal, like the giant that had followed them out of the

 Spine of the World. He put the figurine on the ground and

 called softly for the panther, watching as the telltale gray

 mist began to swirl about the statue, gradually taking shape.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Catti-brie wiped her eyes, then lifted the spyglass once

 again, scanning the deck, hardly believing what she saw. But

 again she saw the truth of it all: that this was no pirate,

 at least none of the kind she had ever before seen. There

 were women aboard, and not warrior women, not even sailors,

 and surely not prisoners. And children! Several she had seen,

 and none of them dressed as cabin boys.

    She winced as a ballista spear grazed the schooner's

 deck, skipping off a turnstile and cracking through the side

 rail, only missing a young boy by a hands' breadth.

    "Get ye down, and be quick," she instructed the lookout

 sharing the crow's nest. "Tell yer captain to load chain and

 take her in her high sails."

    The man, obviously impressed with the tales he had heard

 of Drizzt and Catti-brie, turned without hesitation and

 started down the rope, but the woman knew that the task for

 stopping this coming travesty had fallen squarely upon her

 shoulders.

    Quester had dropped to battle sail, but the schooner kept

 at full, kept its run straight and swift, and seemed as if it

 meant to smash right through the larger caravel.

    Catti-brie put up the spyglass again, scanning slowly,

 searching, searching. She knew now that Drizzt's guess about

 the schooner's course and intent had been correct, knew that

 this was Crenshinibon's doing, and that truth made her blood

 boil with rage. One, or two, perhaps, would be the key, but

 where . . .

    She spotted the man at the forward rail of the flying

 bridge, his form mostly obscured by the mainmast. She held

 her sights on him for a long while, resisting the urge to

 shift and observe damage as Quester's ballistae let fly

 again, this time in accord with Catti-brie's orders. Spinning

 chains ripped high through the schooner's top sails. This

 sight, this man at the rail, one hand gripping the wood so

 tightly that it was white for lack of blood, was more

 important.

    The schooner flinched, the ship veering slightly,

 unintentionally, until the crew could work the ballista-

 altered sails to put her in line again. In that turn, the

 image of the man at the rail drifted clear of the obstructing

 mast, and Catti-brie saw him clearly, saw the crazed look

 upon his face, saw the line of drool running from the corner

 of his mouth.

    And she knew.

    She dropped the spyglass and took up Taulmaril, lining

 her shot with great care, using the mainmast as a guide, for

 she could hardly even see the target.

    "If they've a wizard, he should have acted by now," a

 frantic Captain Vaines cried. "For what do they wait? To

 tease us, as a cat to a mouse?"

    Bruenor looked at the man and snorted derisively.

    "They've no wizard," Drizzt assured the captain.

    "Do they mean to simply ram us, then?" the captain asked.

 "We'll take her down, then!" He turned to yell new

 instructions to the ballista crews, to instruct his archers

 to rake the deck. But before he uttered a word a silver

 streak from the nest above startled him. He spun around to

 see the streak cut across the schooner's deck, then angle

 sharply to the right and fly out over the open sea.

    Before he could begin to question it another streak shot

 out, following nearly the same course, except that this one

 didn't deflect. It soared right past the schooner's mainmast.

    Everything seemed to come to a stop, a tangible pause

 from caravel and schooner alike.

    "Hold the cat!" Catti-brie called down to Drizzt.

    Vaines looked at the drow doubtfully, but Drizzt didn't

 doubt, not at all. He put his hand up and called Guenhwyvar-

 who had moved back on the deck to get a running start-back to

 his side.

    "It is ended," the dark elf announced.

    The captain's doubting expression melted as the

 schooner's mainsail dropped, the ship's prow also dropping

 instantly, deeper into the sea. Her back beam swung out wide,

 turning the triangular back sail. She leaned far to the side,

 turning her prow back toward the east, back toward the far-

 distant shore.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Through the spyglass, Catti-brie saw a woman kneeling

 over the dead man while another man cradled his head. An

 emptiness settled in Catti-brie's breast, for she never

 enjoyed such an action, never wanted to kill anyone.

    But that man had been the antagonist, the driving force

 behind a battle that would have left many innocents on the

 schooner dead. Better that he pay for his failings with his

 own life alone than with the lives of others.

    She told herself that repeatedly. It helped but a little.

    Certain that the fight had indeed been avoided, Drizzt

 looked down at the crystal shard once more with utter

 contempt. A single call to a single man had nearly brought

 ruin to so many.

    He could not wait to be rid of the thing.

    

                            Chapter 16

                    BROTHERS OF MIND AND MAGIC

  

    The dark elf leaned back in a chair, settling

 comfortably, as he always seemed to do, and listening I with

 more than a passing amusement. Jarlaxle had planted a device

 of clairaudience on the magnificent wizard's robe he had

 given to Rai'gy Bondalek, one of many enchanted gemstones

 sewn into the black cloth. This one had a clever aura,

 deceiving any who would detect it into thinking it was a

 stone the wizard wearing the robe could use to cast the

 clairaudience spell. And indeed it was, but it possessed

 another power, one with a matching stone that Jarlaxle kept,

 allowing the mercenary to listen in at will upon Rai'gy's

 conversations.

    "The replica was well made and holds much of the

 original's dweomer," Rai'gy was saying, obviously referring

 to the magical, Drizzt-seeking locket.

    "Then you should have no trouble in locating the rogue

 again and again," came the reply, the voice of Kimmuriel

 Oblodra.

    "They are still aboard the ship," Rai'gy explained. "And

 from what I have heard they mean to be aboard for many more

 days."

    "Jarlaxle demands more information," the Oblodran

 psionicist said, "else he will turn the duties over to me."

    "Ah, yes, given to my principal adversary," the wizard

 said in mock seriousness.

    In that distant room, Jarlaxle chuckled. The two thought

 it important to keep him believing that they were rivals and

 thus no threat to him, though in truth they had forged a

 tight and trusted friendship. Jarlaxle didn't mind that-in

 fact, he rather preferred it-because he understood that even

 together the psionicist and the wizard, dark elves of

 considerable magical talents and powers but little

 understanding of the motivations and nature of reasoning

 beings, would never move against him. They feared not so much

 that he would defeat them, but rather that they would prove

 victorious and then be forced to shoulder the responsibility

 for the entire volatile band.

    "The best method to discern more about the rogue would be

 to go to him in disguise and listen to his words," Rai'gy

 went on. "Already I have learned much of his present course

 and previous events."

    Jarlaxle came forward in his chair, listening intently as

 Rai'gy began a chant. He recognized enough of the words to

 understand that the wizard-priest was enacting a scrying

 spell, a reflective pool.

    "That one there," Rai'gy said a few moments later.

    "The young boy?" came Kimmuriel's response. "Yes, he

 would be an easy target. Humans do not prepare their children

 well, as do the drow."

    "You could take his mind?" Rai'gy asked.

    "Easily."

    "Through the scrying pool?"

    There came a long pause. "I do not know that it has ever

 been done," Kimmuriel admitted, and his tone told Jarlaxle

 that he was not afraid of the prospect, but rather intrigued.

    "Then our eyes and ears would be right beside the

 outcast," Rai'gy went on. "In a form Drizzt Do'Urden would

 not think to distrust. A curious child, one who would love to

 hear his many tales of adventure."

    Jarlaxle took his hand from the gemstone, and the

 clairaudience spell went away. He settled back into his chair

 and smiled widely, taking comfort in the ingenuity of his

 underlings.

    That was the truth of his power, he realized, the ability

 to delegate responsibility and allow others to rightfully

 take their credit. The strength of Jarlaxle lay not in

 Jarlaxle, though even alone he could be formidable indeed,

 but in the competent soldiers with whom the mercenary

 surrounded himself. To battle Jarlaxle was to battle Bregan

 D'aerthe, an organization of free-thinking, amazingly

 competent drow warriors.

    To battle Jarlaxle was to lose.

    The guilds of Calimport would soon recognize that truth,

 the drow leader knew, and so would Drizzt Do'Urden.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "I have contacted another plane of existence and from the

 creatures there, beings great and wise, beings who can see

 into the humble affairs of the drow with hardly a thought, I

 have learned of the outcast and his friends, of where they

 have been and where they mean to go," Rai'gy Bondalek

 proclaimed to Jarlaxle the next day.

    Jarlaxle nodded and accepted the lie, seeing Rai'gy's

 proclamation of some otherworldly and mysterious source as

 inconsequential.

    "Inland, as I earlier told you," Rai'gy explained. "They

 took to a ship-the Quester, it is called-in Waterdeep, and

 now sail south for a city called Baldur's Gate, which they

 should reach in a matter of three days."

    "Then back to land?"

    "Briefly," Rai'gy answered, for indeed, Kimmuriel had

 learned much in his half day as a cabin boy. "They will take

 to ship again, a smaller craft, to travel along a river that

 will bring them far from the great water they call the Sword

 Coast. Then they will take to land travel again, to a place

 called the Snowflake Mountains and a structure called the

 Spirit Soaring, wherein dwells a mighty priest named

 Cadderly. They go to destroy an artifact of great power," he

 went on, adding details that he and not Kimmuriel had learned

 through use of the reflecting pool. "This artifact is

 Crenshinibon by name, though often referred to as the crystal

 shard."

    Jarlaxle's eyes narrowed at the mention. He had heard of

 Crenshinibon before in a story concerning a mighty demon and

 Drizzt Do'Urden. Pieces began to fall into place then, the

 beginnings of a cunning plan creeping into the corners of his

 mind. "So that is where they shall go," he said. "As

 important, where have they been?"

    "They came from Icewind Dale, they say," Rai'gy reported.

 "A land of cold ice and blowing wind. And they left behind

 one named Wulfgar, a mighty warrior. They believe him to be

 in the city of Luskan, north of Water-deep along the same

 seacoast."

    "Why did he not accompany them?"

    Rai'gy shook his head. "He is troubled, I believe, though

 I know not why. Perhaps he has lost something or has found

 tragedy."

    "Speculation," Jarlaxle said. "Mere assumptions. And such

 things will lead to mistakes that we can ill afford."

    "What part plays Wulfgar?" Rai'gy asked with some

 surprise.

    "Perhaps no part, perhaps a vital one," Jarlaxle

 answered. "I cannot decide until I know more of him. If you

 cannot learn more, then perhaps it is time I go to Kimmuriel

 for answers." He noted the way the wizard-priest stiffened at

 his words, as though Jarlaxle had slapped him.

    "Do you wish to learn more of the outcast or of this

 Wulfgar?" Rai'gy asked, his voice sharp.

    "More of Cadderly," Jarlaxle replied, drawing a

 frustrated sigh from his off-balance companion. Rai'gy didn't

 even move to answer. He just turned about, threw his hands up

 in the air and walked away.

    Jarlaxle was finished with him anyway. The names of

 Crenshinibon and Wulfgar had him deep in thought. He had

 heard of both; of Wulfgar, given by a handmaiden to Lolth and

 from Lolth to Errtu, the demon who sought the Crystal Shard.

 Perhaps it was time for the mercenary leader to go and pay a

 visit to Errtu, though truly he hated dealing with the

 unpredictable and ultimately dangerous creatures of the

 Abyss. Jarlaxle survived by understanding the motivations of

 his enemies, but demons rarely held any definite motivations

 and could certainly alter their desires moment by moment.

    But there were other ways with other allies. The

 mercenary drew out a slender wand and with a thought

 teleported his body back to Menzoberranzan.

    His newest lieutenant, once a proud member of the ruling

 house, was waiting for him.

    "Go to your brother Gromph," Jarlaxle instructed. "Tell

 him that I wish to learn of the story of the human named

 Wulfgar, the demon Errtu, and the artifact known as

 Crenshinibon."

    "Wulfgar was taken in the first raid on Mithral Hall, the

 realm of Clan Battlehammer," Berg'inyon Baenre answered, for

 he knew well the tale. "By a handmaiden, and given to Lolth."

    "But where from there?" Jarlaxle asked. "He is back on

 our plane of existence, it would seem, on the surface."

    Berg'inyon's expression showed his surprise at that. Few

 ever escaped the clutches of the Spider Queen. But then, he

 admitted silently, nothing about Drizzt Do'Urden had ever

 been predictable. "I will find my brother this day," he

 assured Jarlaxle.

    "Tell him that I wish to know of a mighty priest named

 Cadderly," Jarlaxle added, and he tossed Berg'inyon a small

 amulet. "It is imbued with the emanations of my location," he

 explained, "that your brother might find me or send a

 messenger."

    Again Berg'inyon nodded.

    "All is well?" Jarlaxle asked.

    "The city remains quiet," the lieutenant reported, and

 Jarlaxle was not surprised. Ever since the last assault upon

 Mithral Hall several years before, when Matron Baenre, the

 figurehead of Menzoberranzan for centuries, had been killed,

 the city had been outwardly quiet above the tumult of private

 planning. To her credit, Triel Baenre, Matron Baenre's oldest

 daughter, had done a credible job of holding the house

 together. But despite her efforts it seemed likely that the

 city would soon know interhouse wars beyond the scope of

 anything previously experienced. Jarlaxle had decided to

 strike out for the surface, to extend his grasp, thus making

 his mercenary band invaluable to any house with aspirations

 for greater power.

    The key to it all now, Jarlaxle understood, was to keep

 everyone on his side even as they waged war with each other.

 It was a line he had learned to walk with perfection

 centuries before.

    "Go to Gromph quickly," he instructed. "This is of utmost

 importance. I must have my answers before Narbondel brightens

 a hands' pillars," he explained, using a common expression to

 mean before five days had passed. The expression "hands'

 pillars" represented the five fingers on one hand.

    Berg'inyon departed, and with a silent mental instruction

 to his wand Jarlaxle was back in Calimport. As quickly as his

 body moved, so too moved his thoughts to another pressing

 issue. Berg'inyon would not fail him, nor would Gromph, nor

 would Rai'gy and Kimmuriel. He knew that with all confidence,

 and that knowledge allowed him to focus on this very night's

 work: the takeover of the Basadoni Guild.

    "Who is there?" came the old voice, a voice full of

 calmness despite the apparent danger.

    Entreri, having just stepped through one of Kimmuriel

 Oblodra's dimensional portals, heard it as if from far, far

 away, as the assassin fought to orient himself to his new

 surroundings. He was in Pasha Basadoni's private room, behind

 a lavish dressing screen. Finally finding his center of

 balance and consciousness, the assassin spent a moment

 studying his surroundings, his ears pricked for the slightest

 of sounds: breathing or the steady footfalls of a practiced

 killer.

    But of course he and Kimmuriel had properly scouted the

 room and the whereabouts of the pasha's lieutenants, and they

 knew that the old and helpless man was quite alone.

    "Who is there?" came another call.

    Entreri walked out around the screen and into the

 candlelight, shifting his bolero back on his head that the

 old man might see him clearly, and that the assassin might

 gaze upon Basadoni.

    How pitiful the old man looked, a hollow shell of his

 former self, his former glory. Once Pasha Basadoni had been

 the most powerful guildmaster in Calimport, but now he was

 just an old man, a figurehead, a puppet whose strings could

 be pulled by several different people at once.

    Entreri, despite himself, hated those string pullers.

    "You should not have come," Basadoni rasped at him. "Flee

 the city, for you cannot live here. Too many, too many."

    "You have spent two decades underestimating me," Entreri

 replied lightly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. "When

 will you learn the truth?"

    That brought a phlegm-filled chuckle from Basadoni, and

 Entreri flashed a rare smile.

    "I have known the truth of Artemis Entreri since he was a

 street urchin killing intruders with sharpened stones," the

 old man reminded him.

    "Intruders you sent," said Entreri.

    Basadoni conceded the point with a grin. "I had to test

 you."

    "And have I passed, Pasha?" Entreri considered his own

 tone as he spoke the words. The two were speaking like old

 Mends, and in a manner they were indeed. But now, because of

 the actions of Basadoni's lieutenants, they were also mortal

 enemies. Still the pasha seemed quite at ease here, alone and

 helpless with Entreri. At first, the assassin had thought

 that the man might be better prepared than he had assumed,

 but after carefully inspecting the room and the partially

 upright bed that held the old man, he was secure in the fact

 that Basadoni had no tricks to play. Entreri was in control,

 and that didn't seem to bother Pasha Basadoni as much as it

 should.

    "Always, always," Basadoni replied, but then his smile

 dissipated into a grimace. "Until now. Now you have failed,

 and at a task too easy."

    Entreri shrugged as if it did not matter. "The targeted

 man was pitiful," he explained. "Truly. Am I, the assassin

 who passed all of your tests, who ascended to sit beside you

 though I was still but a young man, to murder wretched

 peasants who owe a debt that a novice pickpocket could cover

 in half a day's work?"

    "That was not the point," Basadoni insisted. "I let you

 back in, but you have been gone a long time, and thus you had

 to prove yourself. Not to me," the pasha quickly added,

 seeing the assassin's frown.

    "No, to your foolish lieutenants," Entreri reasoned.

    "They have earned their positions."

    "That is my fear."

    "Now it is Artemis Entreri who underestimates," Pasha

 Basadoni insisted. "Each of the three have their place and

 serve me well."

    "Well enough to keep me out of your house?" Entreri

 asked.

    Pasha Basadoni gave a great sigh. "Have you come to kill

 me?" he asked, and then he laughed again. "No, not that. You

 would not kill me, because you have no reason to. You know,

 of course, that if you somehow succeed against Kadran Gordeon

 and the others, I will take you back in."

    "Another test?" Entreri asked dryly.

    "If so, then one you created."

    "By sparing the life of a wretch who likely would have

 preferred death?" Entreri said, shaking his head as if the

 whole notion was purely ridiculous.

    A flicker of understanding sharpened Basadoni's old gray

 eyes. "So it was not sympathy," he said, grinning.

    "Sympathy?"

    "For the wretch," the old man explained. "No, you care

 nothing for him, care not that he was subsequently murdered.

 No, no, and I should have understood. It was not sympathy

 that stayed the hand of Artemis Entreri. Never that! It was

 pride, simple, foolish pride. You would not lower yourself to

 the level of street enforcer, and thus you started a war you

 cannot win. Oh, fool!"

    "Cannot win?" Entreri echoed. "You assume much." He

 studied the old man for a long moment, locking gazes. "Tell

 me, Pasha, who do you wish to win?" he asked.

    "Pride again," Basadoni replied with a flourish of his

 skinny arms that stole much of his strength and left him

 gasping. "But the point," he continued a moment later, "in

 any case, is moot. What you truly ask is if I still care for

 you, and of course I do. I remember well your ascent through

 my guild, as well as any father recalls the growth of his

 son. I do not wish you ill in this war you have begun, though

 you understand that there is little I can do to prevent these

 events that you and Kadran, prideful fools both, have put in

 order. And of course, as I said before, you cannot win."

    "You do not understand everything."

    "Enough," the old man said. "I know that you have no

 allegiance among the other guilds, not even with Dwahvel and

 her little ones or Quentin Bodeau and his meager band. Oh,

 they swear neutrality-we would have it no other way-but they

 will not aid you in your fight, and neither will any of the

 other truly powerful guilds. And thus are you doomed."

    "And you know of every guild?" Entreri asked slyly.

    "Even the wretched wererats of the sewers," Pasha

 Basadoni said with confidence, but Entreri noted a hint at

 the edges of his tone that showed he was not as smug as he

 outwardly pretended. There was a sadness here, Entreri knew,

 a weariness and, obviously, a lack of control. The

 lieutenants ran the guild.

    "I tell you this out of admission for all that you did

 for me," the assassin said, and he was not surprised to see

 the wise old pasha's eyes narrow warily. "Call it loyalty,

 call it a last debt repaid," Entreri went on, and he was

 sincere-about the forewarning, at least-"you do not know all,

 and your lieutenants shall not prevail against me."

    "Ever the confident one," the pasha said with another

 phlegm-filled laugh.

    "And never wrong," Entreri added, and he tipped his

 bolero and walked behind the dressing screen, back to the

 waiting dimensional portal.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "You have made every defense?" Pasha Basadoni asked with

 true concern, for the old man knew enough about Artemis

 Entreri to take the assassin's warning seriously. As soon as

 Entreri had left him, Basadoni had gathered his lieutenants.

 He didn't tell them of his visitor, but he wanted to ensure

 that they were ready. The time was near, he knew, very near.

    Sharlotta, Hand, and Gordeon all nodded-somewhat

 condescendingly, Basadoni noted. "They will come this night,"

 he announced. Before any of the three could question where he

 might have garnered that information, he added, "I can feel

 their eyes upon us."

    "Of course, my Pasha," purred Sharlotta, bending low to

 kiss the old man's forehead.

    Basadoni laughed at her and laughed all the louder when a

 guard shouted from the hallway that the house had been

 breached.

    "In the sub-cellar!" the man cried. "From the sewers!"

    "The wererat guild?" Kadran Gordeon asked incredulously.

 "Domo Quillilo assured us that he would not-"

    "Domo Quillilo stayed out of Entreri's way, then,"

 Basadoni interrupted.

    "Entreri has not come alone," Kadran reasoned.

    "Then he will not die alone," Sharlotta said, seeming

 unconcerned. "A pity."

    Kadran nodded, drew his sword, and turned to leave.

 Basadoni, with great effort, grabbed his arm. "Entreri will

 come in separately from his allies," the old man warned. "For

 you."

    "More to my pleasure, then," Kadran growled in reply. "Go

 lead our defenses," he told Hand. "And when Entreri is dead,

 I will bring his head to you that we may show it to those

 stupid enough to join with him."

    Hand had barely exited the room when he was nearly run

 over by a soldier coming up from the cellars. "Kobolds!" the

 man cried, his expression showing that he hardly believed the

 claim as he spoke it. "Entreri's allies are smelly rat

 kobolds."

    "Lead on, then," said Hand, much more confidently.

 Against the power of the guild house, with two wizards and

 two hundred soldiers, kobolds- even if they poured in by the

 thousands-would prove no more than a minor inconvenience.

    Back in the room, the other two lieutenants heard the

 claim and stared at each other in disbelief, then broke into

 wide smiles.

    Pasha Basadoni, lying on the bed and watching them,

 didn't share that mirth. Entreri was up to something, he

 knew, something big, and kobolds would hardly be the worst of

 it.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Kobolds indeed led the way into the Basadoni guild house,

 up from the sewers where frightened were-rats-as per their

 agreement with Entreri-stayed hidden in shadows, out of the

 way. Jarlaxle had brought a considerable number of the smelly

 little creatures with him from Menzoberranzan. Bregan

 D'aerthe was housed primarily along the rim of the great

 Clawrift that rent the drow city, and in there the kobolds

 bred and bred, thousands and thousands of the things. Three

 hundred had accompanied the forty drow to Calimport, and they

 now led the charge, running wildly through all the lower

 corridors of the guild house, inadvertently setting off the

 traps, both mechanical and magical, and marking the locations

 of the Basadoni soldiers.

    Behind them came the drow host, silent as death.

    Kimmuriel Oblodra, Jarlaxle, and Entreri moved up one

 slanting corridor, flanked by a foursome of drow warriors

 holding hand crossbows readied with poison-tipped darts. Up

 ahead the corridor opened into a wide room, and a group of

 kobolds scrambled across, chased by a threesome of archers.

    "Click, click, click," went the crossbows, and the three

 archers stumbled, staggered, and slumped to the floor, deep

 in sleep.

    An explosion to the side sent the kobolds, half the

 previous number, scrambling back the other way.

    "Not a magical blast," Kimmuriel remarked.

    Jarlaxle sent a pair of his soldiers out wide the other

 way, flanking the human position. Kimmuriel took a more

 direct route, opening a dimensional door diagonally across

 the wide floor to the open edge of the corridor from which

 the explosion had come. As soon as the door appeared, leading

 into another long, ascending corridor, he and Entreri spotted

 the bombers. There was a group of men rushing behind a

 barricade, flanked by several large kegs.

    "Drow elf!" one of the men shouted, pointing to the open

 door. Kimmuriel stood across the dimensional space behind the

 other door.

    "Light it! Light it!" cried another man. A third brought

 a torch over to light the long rag hanging off the top of one

 keg.

    Kimmuriel reached into his mind yet again, focusing on

 the keg, on the latent energy within the wood planking. He

 touched that energy, exciting it. Before the men could even

 begin to roll the barrel out from behind the barricade it

 blew apart, then exploded again as the burning wick hit the

 oil.

    A flaming man tumbled out from the barricade, rolling

 frantically down the corridor, trying to douse the flames. A

 second, less injured, staggered into the open, and one of the

 remaining drow soldiers put a hand crossbow dart into his

 face.

    Kimmuriel dropped the dimensional door-better to run

 through the room-and the group set off, rushing past the

 burning corpse and the sleeping and badly injured man, past

 the third victim of the explosion, curled in death in a fetal

 position in the corner of the small cubby, then down a side

 passage. There they found three more men, two asleep and a

 third lying dead before the feet of the two soldiers Jarlaxle

 had sent out to flank.

    And so it went throughout the lower levels, with the dark

 elves overrunning all obstacles. Jarlaxle had taken only his

 finest warriors with him to the surface: renegade, houseless

 dark elves who had once belonged to noble houses, who had

 trained for decades, centuries even, for just this kind of

 close-quartered, room-to-room, tunnel-to-tunnel combat. A

 brigade of knights in shining mail and with wizard supporters

 might prove a credible enemy to the dark elves on an open

 field of battle. These street thugs, though, with their small

 daggers, short swords, and minor magics, and with no

 foreknowledge of the enemy that had come against them, fell

 systematically to Jarlaxle's steadily moving band. Basadoni's

 men surrendered position after position, retreating higher

 and higher into the guild house proper.

    Jarlaxle found Rai'gy Bondalek and half a dozen warriors

 moving along the street level of the house.

    "They had two wizards," the wizard-priest explained. "I

 put them in a globe of silence and-"

    "Pray tell me you did not destroy them," said the

 mercenary leader, who knew well the value of wizards.

    "We hit them with darts," Rai'gy explained. "But one had

 a stoneskin enchantment about him and had to be destroyed."

    Jarlaxle could accept that. "Finish the business at

 hand," he said to Rai'gy. "I will take Entreri to claim his

 place in the higher rooms."

    "And him?" Rai'gy asked sourly, motioning toward

 Kimmuriel.

    Knowing their little secret, Jarlaxle did well to hide

 his smile. "Lead on," he instructed Entreri.

    They encountered another group of heavily armed soldiers,

 but Jarlaxle used one of his many wands to entrap them all

 within globs of goo. Another one did slip away-or would have,

 except that Artemis Entreri knew well the tactics of such

 men. He saw the shadow lengthening against the wall and

 directed the shot well.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Kadran Gordeon's eyes widened when Hand stumbled into the

 room, gasping and clutching at his hip. "Dark elves," the man

 explained, slumping in the arms of his comrade. "Entreri. The

 bastard brought dark elves!"

    Hand slipped to the floor, fast asleep.

    Kadran Gordeon let him fall and ran on, out the back door

 of the room, across the wide ballroom of the second floor,

 and up the sweeping staircase.

    Entreri and his friends noted every movement.

    "That is the one?" Jarlaxle asked.

    Entreri nodded. "I will kill him," he promised, starting

 away, but Jarlaxle grabbed his shoulder. Entreri turned to

 see the mercenary leader looking slyly at Kimmuriel.

    "Would you like to fully humiliate the man?" Jarlaxle

 asked.

    Before Entreri could respond, Kimmuriel came up to stand

 right before him. "Join with me," the drow psionicist said,

 lifting his fingers for Entreri's forehead.

    The ever-wary assassin brushed the reaching hand away.

    Kimmuriel tried to explain, but Entreri knew only the

 basics of drow language, not the subtleties. The psionicist's

 words sounded more like the joining of lovers than anything

 Entreri understood. Frustrated, Kimmuriel turned to Jarlaxle

 and started talking so fast that it seemed to Entreri as if

 he was saying one long word.

    "He has a trick for you to play," Jarlaxle explained in

 the common surface tongue. "He wishes to get into your mind,

 but only briefly, to enact a kinetic barrier and show you how

 to maintain it."

    "A kinetic barrier?" the confused assassin asked.

    "Trust him this one time," Jarlaxle bade. "Kimmuriel

 Oblodra is among the greatest practitioners of the rare and

 powerful psionic magic and is so skilled with it that he can

 often lend some of his power to another, albeit briefly."

    "He will teach me?" Entreri asked skeptically.

    Kimmuriel laughed at the absurd notion.

    "The mind magic is a gift, a rare gift, and not a lesson

 to be taught," Jarlaxle explained. "But Kimmuriel can lend

 you a bit of the power, enough to humiliate Kadran Gordeon."

    Entreri's expression showed that he wasn't so sure of any

 of this.

    "We could kill you at any time by more conventional means

 if we so decided," Jarlaxle reminded him. He nodded to

 Kimmuriel, and Artemis Entreri did not back away.

    And so Entreri got his first personal understanding of

 psionics and walked up the sweeping staircase unafraid.

 Across the way a concealed archer let fly, and Entreri took

 the arrow right in the back-or would have, except that the

 kinetic barrier stopped the arrow's flight, fully absorbing

 its energy.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Sharlotta heard the ruckus in the outer rooms of the

 royal complex and figured that Gordeon had returned. She

 still had no idea of the rout in the lower halls, though, and

 so she decided to move quickly, to use this opportunity well.

 From one of the long sleeves of her alluring gown she drew

 out a slender knife, moving with purpose for the door that

 would lead into a larger room, with the door of Pasha

 Basadoni across the way.

    Finally she would be done with the man, and it would look

 as if Entreri or one of his associates had completed the

 assassination.

    Sharlotta paused at the door, hearing another slam beyond

 and the sound of running feet. Gordeon was on the move, as

 was another.

    Had Entreri gained this level?

    The thought assaulted her but did not dissuade her. There

 were other ways, more secret ways, though the route would be

 longer. She went to the back of her room, removed a specific

 book from her bookshelf, then slipped into the corridor that

 opened behind the case.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Entreri caught up to Kadran Gordeon soon after in a

 complex of many small rooms. The man rushed out the side,

 sword slashing. He hit Entreri a dozen times at least and the

 assassin, focusing his thoughts with supreme concentration,

 didn't even try to block. Instead he just took them and stole

 their energy, feeling the power building, building within

 him.

    Eyes wide, mouth agape, Kadran Gordeon back-pedaled.

 "What manner of demon are you?" the man gasped, falling back

 through a door into the room where Sharlotta, small dagger in

 hand, had just come out of another concealed passage,

 standing along a wall to the side of Pasha Basadoni's bed.

    Entreri, brimming with confidence, strode in.

    On came Gordeon again, sword slashing. This time Entreri

 drew the sword Jarlaxle had given him and countered, parrying

 each slash perfectly. He felt his mental concentration waning

 and knew that he had to react soon or be consumed by the

 pent-up energy, so when Gordeon came with a sidelong slash,

 Entreri dipped the tip of his blade below the angle of the

 cut, then brought it up and over quickly, stepping under,

 turning about, and rolling his sword around. He took Gordeon

 off balance and crashed into the man, knocking him to the

 floor and coming down atop him, weapon pinning weapon.

    Sharlotta lifted her arm to throw her knife into Basadoni

 but then shifted, seeing the too-tempting target of Artemis

 Entreri's back as the man went down atop Kadran Gordeon.

    But then she shifted again as another, darker form

 entered the room. She cocked to throw, but the drow was

 quicker. A dagger sliced her wrist, pinning her arm to the

 wall. Another dagger stuck in the wall to the right of her

 head, then another to the left. Another grazed the side of

 her chest, and then another as Jarlaxle pumped his arm

 rapidly, sending a seemingly endless stream of steel her way.

    Gordeon punched Entreri in the face.

    That, too, was absorbed.

    "I do grow tired of your foolishness," said Entreri,

 putting his hand on Gordeon's chest, ignoring the man's free

 hand as it pumped punch after punch at his face.

    With a thought Entreri released the energy, all of it,

 the arrow, the many sword hits, the many punches. His hand

 sank into Gordeon's chest, melting the skin and ribs below

 it. A rolling fountain of blood erupted, spewing into the air

 and falling back on Gordeon's surprised expression, filling

 his mouth as he tried to scream in horror.

    And then he was dead.

    Entreri got up to see Sharlotta standing against the

 wall, hands in the air-one pinned to the wall-facing

 Jarlaxle, who had yet another dagger ready. Several other

 drow, including Kimmuriel and Rai'gy, had come into the room

 behind their leader. The assassin quickly moved between her

 and Basadoni, noting the dagger Sharlotta had obviously

 dropped on the floor right beside the bed. He turned his sly

 gaze on the dangerous woman.

    "It would seem that I arrived just in time, Pasha,"

 Entreri explained, picking up the weapon. "Sharlotta,

 thinking the guild house secure, had apparently decided to

 use the battle to her advantage, finally ridding herself of

 you."

    Both Entreri and Basadoni looked at Sharlotta. She stood

 impassive, obviously caught, though she finally managed to

 extract the material of her sleeve from the sticking dagger.

    "She did not know the truth of her enemies," Jaraxle

 explained.

    Entreri looked at him and nodded. The dark elves all

 stepped back, allowing the assassin his moment.

    "Should I kill her?" Entreri asked Basadoni.

    "Why ask my permission?" the pasha replied, obviously

 none too pleased. "Am I then to credit you for this? For

 bringing dark elves to my house?"

    "I acted as I needed to survive," Entreri replied. "Most

 of the house survives, neutralized but not killed. Kadran

 Gordeon is dead-never could I have trusted that one-but Hand

 survives. And so we will go on under the same arrangement as

 before, with three Lieutenants and one guildmaster." He

 looked to Jarlaxle, then back to Sharlotta. "Of course, my

 friend Jarlaxle desires a position of lieutenant," he said.

 "One well-earned, and that I cannot deny."

    Sharlotta stiffened, expecting then to die, for she could

 do simple math.

    Indeed Entreri did originally mean to kill her, but when

 he glanced back to Basadoni, when he looked again upon the

 feeble old man, such a shadow of his former glory, he

 reversed the direction of his sword and put it through Pasha

 Basadoni's heart instead.

    "Three lieutenants," he said to the stunned Sharlotta.

 "Hand, Jarlaxle, and you."

    "So Entreri is guildmaster," the woman remarked with a

 crooked grin. "You said you could not trust Kadran Gordeon,

 yet you recognize that I am more honorable," she said

 seductively, coming forward a step.

    Entreri's sword came out and about too fast for her to

 follow, its tip stopping against the tender flesh of her

 throat. "Trust you?" the assassin balked. "No, but neither do

 I fear you. Do as you are instructed, and you will live." He

 shifted the angle of his blade slightly so that it tucked

 under her chin, and he nicked her there. "Exactly as

 instructed," he warned, "else I will take your pretty face

 from you, one cut at a time."

    Entreri turned to Jarlaxle.

    "The house will be secured within the hour," the dark elf

 assured him. "Then you and your human lieutenants can decide

 the fate of those taken and put out on the streets whatever

 word suits you as guildmaster."

    Entreri had thought that this moment would bring some

 measure of satisfaction. He was glad that Kadran Gordeon was

 dead and glad that the old wretch Basadoni had been given a

 well-deserved rest.

    "As you wish, my Pasha," Sharlotta purred from the side.

    The title turned his stomach.

    

                            Chapter 17

                         EXORCISING DEMONS

  

    There was indeed something appealing about the fighting,

 about the feeling of superiority and the element of control.

 Between the fact that the fights were not lethal-though more

 than a few patrons were badly injured-and the conscience-

 dulling drinks, no guilt accompanied each thunderous punch.

    Just satisfaction and control, an edge that had been too

 long absent.

    Had he stopped to think about it, Wulfgar might have

 realized that he was substituting each new challenger for one

 particular nemesis, one he could not defeat alone, one who

 had tormented him all those years.

    He didn't bother with contemplation, though. He simply

 enjoyed the sensation of his fist colliding with the chest of

 this latest troublemaker, sending the tall, thin man reeling

 back in a hopping, staggering, stumbling quickstep, finally

 to fall backward over a bench some twenty feet from the

 barbarian.

    Wulfgar methodically waded in, grabbing the decked man by

 the collar (and taking out more than a few chest hairs in the

 process) and the groin (and similarly extracting hair). With

 one jerk the barbarian brought the horizontal man level with

 his waist. Then a rolling motion snapped the man up high over

 his head.

    "I just fixed that window," Arumn Gardpeck said dryly,

 helplessly, seeing the barbarian's aim.

    The man flew through it to bounce across Half Moon

 Street.

    "Then fix it again," Wulfgar replied, casting a glare

 over Arumn that the barkeep did not dare to question.

    Arumn just shook his head and went back to wiping his

 bar, reminding himself that, by keeping such complete order

 in the place Wulfgar was attracting customers-many of them.

 Folk now came looking for a safe haven in which to waste a

 night, and then there were those interested in the awesome

 displays of power. These came both as challengers to the

 mighty barbarian or, more often, merely as spectators. Never

 had the Cutlass seen so many patrons, and never had Arumn

 Gardpeck's purse been so full.

    But how much more full it would be, he knew, if he didn't

 have to keep fixing the place.

    "Shouldn't've done that," a man near the bar remarked to

 Arumn. "That's Rossie Doone, he throwed, a soldier."

    "Not wearing any uniform," Arumn remarked.

    "Came in unofficial," the man explained. "Wanted to see

 this Wulfgar thug."

    "He saw him," Arumn replied in the same resigned and dry

 tones.

    "And he'll be seein' him again," the man promised. "Only

 next time with friends."

    Arumn sighed and shook his head, not out of any fear for

 Wulfgar, but because of the expenses he anticipated if a

 whole crew of soldiers came in to fight the barbarian.

    Wulfgar spent that night-half the night-in Delly Curtie's

 room again, taking a bottle with him from the bar, then

 grabbing another one on his way outside. He went down to the

 docks and sat on the edge of a long wharf, watching the

 sparkles grow on the water as the sun rose behind him.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Josi Puddles saw them first, entering the Cutlass the

 very next night, a half-dozen grim-faced men including the

 one the patron had identified as Rossie Doone. They moved to

 the far side of the room, evicting several patrons from

 tables, then pulling three of the benches together so they

 could all sit side by side with their backs to the wall.

    "Full moon tonight," Josi remarked.

    Arumn knew what that meant. Every time the moon was full

 the crowd was a bit rowdier. And what a crowd had come in

 this evening, every sort of rogue and thug Arumn could

 imagine.

    "Been the talk of the street all the day," Josi said

 quietly.

    "The moon?" Arumn asked.

    "Not the moon," Josi replied. "Wulfgar and that Rossie

 fellow. All have been talking of a coming brawl."

    "Six against one," Arumn remarked.

    "Poor soldiers," Josi said with a snicker.

    Arumn nodded to the side then, to Wulfgar, who, sitting

 with a foaming mug in hand, seemed well aware of the group

 that had come in. The look on the barbarian's face, so calm

 and yet so cold, sent a shiver along Arumn's spine. It was

 going to be a long night.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    On the other side of the room, in a corner opposite where

 sat the six soldiers, another man, quiet and unassuming, also

 noted the tension and the prospective combatants with more

 than a passing interest. The man's name was well known on the

 streets of Luskan, though his face was not. He was a shadow

 stalker by trade, a man cloaked in secrecy, but a man whose

 reputation brought trembles to the hardiest of thugs.

    Morik the Rogue had been hearing quite a bit about Arumn

 Gardpeck's new strong-arm; too much, in fact. Story after

 story had come to him about the man's incredible feats of

 strength. About how he had been hit squarely in the face with

 a heavy club and had shaken it away seemingly without care.

 About how he lifted two men high into the air, smashed their

 heads together, then simultaneously tossed them through

 opposite walls of the tavern. About how he had thrown one man

 out into the street, then rushed out and blocked a team of

 two horses with his bare chest to stop the wagon from running

 down the prone drunk. . . .

    Morik had been living among the street people long enough

 to understand the exaggerated nonsense in most of these

 tales. Each storyteller tried to outdo the previous one. But

 he couldn't deny the impressive stature of this man Wulfgar.

 Nor could he deny the many wounds showing about the head of

 Rossie Doone, a soldier Morik knew well and whom he had

 always respected as a solid fighter.

    Of course Morik, his ears so attuned to the streets and

 alleyways, had heard of Rossie's intention to return with his

 friends and settle the score. Of course Morik had also heard

 of another's intention to put this newcomer squarely in his

 place. And so Morik had come in to watch, and nothing more,

 to measure this huge northerner, to see if he had the

 strength, the skills, and the temperament to survive and

 become a true threat.

    Never taking his gaze off Wulfgar, the quiet man sipped

 his wine and waited.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    As soon as he saw Delly moving near to the six men,

 Wulfgar drained his beer in a single swallow and tightened

 his grip on the table. He saw it coming, and how predictable

 it was, as one of Rossie Doone's sidekicks reached out and

 grabbed Delly's bottom as she moved past.

    Wulfgar came up in a rush, storming in right before the

 offender, and right beside Delly.

    "Oh, but 'tis nothing," the woman said, pooh-poohing

 Wulfgar away. He grabbed her by the shoulders, lifted her,

 and turned, depositing her behind him. He turned back,

 glaring at the offender, then at Rossie Doone, the true

 perpetrator.

    Rossie remained seated, laughing still, seeming

 completely relaxed with three burly fighters on his right,

 two more on his left.

    "A bit of fun," Wulfgar stated. "A cloth to cover your

 wounds, deepest of all the wound to your pride."

    Rossie stopped laughing and stared hard at the man.

    "We have not yet fixed the window," Wulfgar said. "Do you

 prefer to leave by that route once more?"

    The man next to Rossie bristled, but Rossie held him

 back. "In truth, northman, I prefer to stay," he answered.

 "In my own eyes it's yourself who should be leaving."

    Wulfgar didn't blink. "I ask you a second time, and a

 last time, to leave of your own accord," he said.

    The man farthest from Rossie, down to Wulfgar's left,

 stood up and stretched languidly. "Think I'll get me a bit o'

 drink," he said calmly to the man seated beside him, and

 then, as if going to the bar, he took a step Wulfgar's way.

    The barbarian, already a seasoned veteran of barroom

 brawls, saw it coming. He understood that the man would grab

 at him to hold and slow him so that Rossie and the others

 could pummel him. He kept his apparent focus directly on

 Rossie and waited. Then, as the man came within two steps, as

 his hands started coming up to grab at Wulfgar, the barbarian

 spun suddenly, stepping inside the other's reach. The

 barbarian snapped his back muscles, launching his forehead

 into the man's face, crushing his nose and sending him

 staggering backward.

    Wulfgar turned back fast, fist flying, and caught Rossie

 across the jaw as he started to rise, slamming the man back

 against the wall. Hardly slowing, Wulfgar grabbed the stunned

 Rossie by the shoulders and yanked him hard to the side,

 flipping him to the left to deflect the coming rush of the

 two men remaining there. Then around went the barbarian

 again, growling, fists flying, to swap heavy punches with the

 two men leaping at him from that direction.

    A knee came up for his groin, but Wulfgar recognized the

 move and reacted fast. He turned his leg in to catch the blow

 with his thigh, then reached down under the bent leg. The

 attacker instinctively grabbed at Wulfgar, catching shoulder

 and hair, trying to use him for balance. But the powerful

 barbarian, simply too strong, drove on, heaving him up and

 over his shoulder, turning as he went to again deflect the

 attack from the two men coming in at his back.

    The movement cost Wulfgar several punches from the man

 who had been standing next to the latest human missile.

 Wulfgar accepted them stoically, hardly seeming to care. He

 came back hard, legs pumping, to drive the puncher into the

 wall, wrestling him around.

    The desperate soldier grabbed on with all his strength,

 and the man's friends fast approached from behind. A roar, a

 wriggle, and a stunning punch extracted Wulfgar from the

 man's grasp. He skittered back away from the wall and the

 pursuers, instinctively ducking a punch as he went and

 grabbing a table by the leg.

    Wulfgar spun back, facing the group, and halted the

 swinging momentum of the table so fully that the item snapped

 apart. The bulk of the table flew into the chest of the

 closest man, leaving Wulfgar standing with a wooden table leg

 in hand, a club he wasted no time in putting to good use. The

 barbarian smacked it below the table at the exposed legs of

 the man he had hit with the missile, cracking the side of the

 soldier's knee once and then again. The man howled in pain

 and shoved the table back out at Wulfgar, but he accepted the

 missile strike with merely a shrug, concentrating instead on

 turning the club in line and jabbing the man in the eye with

 its narrow end.

    A half turn and full swing caught another across the side

 of the head, splitting the club apart and dropping the

 attacker like a sack of ground meal. Wulfgar ran right over

 him as he fell-the barbarian understood that mobility was his

 only defense against so many. He barreled into the next man

 in line, carrying him halfway across the room to slam into a

 wall, a journey that ended with a wild flurry of fists from

 both. Wulfgar took a dozen blows and gave a like number, but

 his were by far the heavier, and the dazed and defeated man

 crumbled to the floor-or would have, had not Wulfgar grabbed

 him as he slumped. The barbarian turned about fast and let

 his latest human missile fly, spinning him in low across the

 ankles of the closest pursuer, who tripped headlong, both

 arms reaching out to grab the barbarian. Wulfgar, still in

 his turn, using the momentum of that spin, dived forward,

 punch leading, stretching right between those arms. His force

 combined with the momentum of the stumbling man, and he felt

 his fist sink deep into the man's face, snapping his head

 back violently.

    That man, too, went down hard.

    Wulfgar stood straight, facing Rossie and his one

 standing ally, who had blood rolling freely from his nose.

 Another man holding his torn eye tried to stand beside them,

 but his broken knee wouldn't support his weight. He stumbled

 away to the side to slam into a wall and sink there into a

 sitting position.

    In the first truly coordinated attack since the chaos had

 begun, Rossie and his companion came in slow and then leaped

 together atop Wulfgar, thinking to bear him down. But though

 the two were both large men, Wulfgar didn't fall, didn't

 stumble in the least. The barbarian caught them as they

 soared in and held his footing. His thrashing had them both

 holding on for dear life. Rossie slipped away, and Wulfgar

 managed to get both arms on the other, dragging the clutching

 man horizontally across in front of his face. The man's arms

 flailed about Wulfgar's head, but the angle of attack was all

 wrong, and the blows proved ineffectual.

    Wulfgar roared again and bit the man's stomach hard, then

 started a full-out, blind run across the tavern floor.

 Gauging the distance, Wulfgar dipped his head at the last

 moment to put his powerful neck muscles in proper alignment,

 then rammed full force into the wall. He bounced back,

 holding the man with just one arm hooked under his shoulder,

 and kept it there long enough to allow the man to come down

 on his feet.

    The man stood, against the wall, watching in confusion as

 Wulfgar ran back a few steps, and then his eyes widened

 indeed when the huge barbarian turned about, roared, and

 charged, dipping his shoulder as he came.

    The man put his arms up, but that hardly mattered, for

 Wulfgar shoulder-drove him against the planking- right into

 the planking, which cracked apart. Louder than the splitting

 wood came the sound of a groan and a sigh from resigned Arumn

 Gardpeck.

    Wulfgar bounced back again but leaned in fast, slamming

 left and right repeatedly, each thunderous blow driving the

 man deeper into the wall. The poor man, crumbled and bloody,

 splinters deep in his back, his nose already broken and half

 his body feeling the same way, held up a feeble arm to show

 that he had had enough.

    Wulfgar smashed him again, a vicious left hook that came

 in over the upraised arm and shattered his jaw, throwing him

 into oblivion. He would have fallen except that the broken

 wall held him fast in place.

    Wulfgar didn't even notice, for he had turned around to

 face Rossie, the lone enemy still showing any ability to

 fight. One of the others, the man Wulfgar had traded blows

 with against the wall, crawled about on hands and knees,

 seeming as if he didn't even know where he was. Another, the

 side of his head split wide by the vicious club swing, kept

 trying to stand and kept falling over, while a third still

 sat against the wall, clutching his torn eye and broken knee.

 The fourth of Rossie's companions, the one Wulfgar had hit

 with the single, devastating punch, lay very still with no

 sign of consciousness.

    "Gather your friends and be gone," a tired Wulfgar

 offered to Rossie. "And do not return."

    In answer, the outraged man reached down to his boot and

 drew out a long knife. "But I want to play," Rossie said

 wickedly, approaching a step.

    "Wulfgar!" came Belly's cry from across the way, from

 behind the bar, and both Wulfgar and Rossie turned to see the

 woman throwing Aegis-fang out toward her friend, though she

 couldn't get the heavy warhammer half the distance.

    That hardly mattered, though, for Wulfgar reached for it

 with his arm and with his mind, telepathically calling to the

 hammer.

    The hammer vanished, then reappeared in the barbarian's

 waiting grasp. "So do I," Wulfgar said to an astonished and

 horrified Rossie. To accentuate his point, he swung Aegis-

 fang, one armed, out behind him. The swing hit and split a

 beam, which drew another profound groan from Arumn.

    Rossie, his eager expression long gone, glanced about and

 backed away liked a trapped animal. He wanted to back out, to

 find some way to flee-that much was apparent to everybody in

 the room.

    And then the outside door banged open, turning all heads-

 those that weren't broken open-Rossie Doone's and Wulfgar's

 included, and in strode the largest human, if he was indeed a

 human, that Wulfgar had ever seen. He was a giant man, taller

 than Wulfgar by a foot at least, and almost as wide, weighing

 perhaps twice the barbarian's three hundred pounds. Even more

 impressive was the fact that very little of the giant's bulk

 jiggled as he stormed in. He was all muscle, and gristle, and

 bone.

    He stopped inside the suddenly hushed tavern, his huge

 head turning slowly to scan the room. His gaze finally

 settled on Wulfgar. He brought his arms out slowly from under

 the front folds of his cloak to reveal that he held a heavy

 length of chain in one hand and a spiked club in the other.

    "Ye too tired for me, Wulfgar the dead?" Tree Block

 Breaker asked, spittle flying with each word. He finished

 with a growl, then brought his arm across powerfully,

 slamming the length of chain across the top of the nearest

 table and splitting the thing neatly down the middle. The

 three patrons sitting at that particular table didn't scamper

 away. They didn't dare to move at all.

    A smile widened across Wulfgar's face. He flipped Aegis-

 fang into the air, a single spin, to catch it again by the

 handle.

    Arumn Gardpeck groaned all the louder; this would be an

 expensive night.

    Rossie Doone and those of his friends who could still

 move scrambled across the room, out of harm's way, leaving

 the path between Wulfgar and Tree Block Breaker clear.

    In the shadows across the room, Morik the Rogue took

 another sip of wine. This was the fight he had come to see.

    "Well, ye give me no answer," Tree Block Breaker said,

 whipping his chain across again. This time it did not connect

 solidly but whipped about one angled leg of the fallen table.

 Then, after slapping the leg of one sitting man, its tip got

 a hold on the man's chair. With a great roar, Tree Block

 yanked the chain back, sending table and chair flying across

 the room and dropping the unfortunate patron on his bum.

    "Tavern etiquette and my employer require that I give you

 the opportunity to leave quietly," Wulfgar calmly replied,

 reciting Arumn's creed.

    On came Tree Block Breaker, a great, roaring monster, a

 giant gone wild. His chain flailed back and forth before him,

 his club raised high to strike.

    Wulfgar realized that he could have taken the giant out

 with a well-aimed throw of Aegis-fang before Tree

    Block had gone two steps, but he let the creature come

 on, relishing the challenge. To everyone's surprise he

 dropped Aegis-fang to the floor as Tree Block closed. When

 the chain swished for his head, he dropped into a sudden

 squat but held his arm vertically above him.

    The chain hooked around, and Wulfgar reached over it and

 grabbed on, giving a great tug that only increased Tree

 Block's charge. The huge man swung with his club, but he was

 too close and still coming. Wulfgar went down low, driving

 his shoulder against the man's legs. Tree Block's momentum

 carried his bulk across the bent barbarian's back.

    Amazingly, stunningly, Wulfgar stood up straight,

 bringing Tree Block up above him. Then, to the astonished

 gasps of all watching, he bent at the knees quickly and

 jerked back up straight. Pushing with all his strength, he

 lifted Tree Block into the air above his head.

    Before the huge man could wriggle about and bring his

 club to bear, Wulfgar ran back the way Tree Block had

 charged, and with a great roar of his own, threw the man

 right through the door, taking it and the jamb out completely

 and depositing the huge man in a jumble of kindling outside

 the Cutlass. His arm still enwrapped by the chain, Wulfgar

 gave a huge tug that sent Tree Block spinning about in the

 pile of wood before he surrendered the chain altogether.

    The stubborn giant thrashed about, finally extricating

 himself from the wood heap. He stood roaring, his face and

 neck cut in a dozen places, his club whirling about wildly.

    "Turn and leave," Wulfgar warned. The barbarian reached

 behind him and with a thought brought Aegis-fang back to his

 hand.

    If Tree Block even heard the warning, he showed no

 indication. He smacked his club against the ground and came

 forward in a rush, snarling.

    And then he was dead. Just like that, caught by surprise

 as the barbarian's arm came forward, as the mighty warhammer

 twirled out, too fast for his attempted deflection with the

 club, too powerfully for Tree Block's massive chest to absorb

 the hit.

    He stumbled backward and went down with more a whisper

 than a bang and lay very still.

    Tree Block Breaker was the first man Wulfgar had killed

 in his tenure at Arumn Gardpeck's bar, the first man killed

 in the Cutlass in many, many months. All the tavern, Delly

 and Josi, Rossie Doone and his thugs, seemed to stop in pure

 amazement. The place went perfectly silent.

    Wulfgar, Aegis-fang returned to his grasp, calmly turned

 about and walked over to the bar, paying no heed to the

 dangerous Rossie Doone. He placed Aegis-fang on the bar

 before Arumn, indicating that the bar-keep should replace it

 on the shelves behind the counter, then casually remarked,

 "You should fix the door, Arumn, and quickly, else someone

 walks in and steals your stock."

    And then, as if nothing had happened, Wulfgar walked back

 across the room, seemingly oblivious to the silence and the

 open-mouthed stares that followed his every stride.

    Arumn Gardpeck shook his head and lifted the warhammer,

 then stopped as a shadowy figure came up opposite him.

    "A fine warrior you have there, Master Gardpeck," the man

 said. Arumn recognized the voice, and the hairs on the back

 of his neck stood up.

    "And Half Moon Street is a better place without that

 bully Tree Block running about," Morik went on. "I'll not

 lament his demise."

    "I have never asked for any quarrel," Arumn said. "Not

 with Tree Block and not with you."

    "Nor will you find one," Morik assured the innkeeper as

 Wulfgar, noting the conversation, came up beside the man-as

 did Josi Puddles and Delly, though they kept a more

 respectful distance from the dangerous rogue.

    "Well fought, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar," Morik said. He

 slid a glass of drink along the bar before Wulfgar, who

 looked down at it, then back at Morik suspiciously. After

 all, how could Morik know his full name, one he had not used

 since his entry into Luskan, one that he had purposely left

 far, far behind.

    Delly slipped in between the two, calling for Arumn to

 fetch her a couple of drinks for other patrons, and while the

 two stood staring at each other, she slyly swapped the drink

 Morik had placed with one from her tray. Then she moved out

 of the way, rolling back behind Wulfgar, wanting the security

 of his massive form between her and the dangerous man.

    "Nor will you find one," Morik said again to Arumn. He

 tapped his forehead in salute and walked away, out of the

 Cutlass.

    Wulfgar eyed him curiously, recognizing the balanced gait

 of a warrior, then moved to follow, pausing only long enough

 to lift and drain the glass.

    "Morik the Rogue," Josi Puddles remarked to Arumn and

 Delly, moving opposite the barkeep. Both he and Arumn noted

 that Delly was holding the glass Morik had offered to

 Wulfgar.

    "And likely this'd kill a fair-sized minotaur," she said,

 reaching over to dump the contents into a basin.

    Despite Morik's assurances, Arumn Gardpeck did not

 disagree. Wulfgar had solidified his reputation a hundred

 times over this night, first by absolutely humbling Rossie

 Doone and his crowd-there would be no more trouble from them-

 and then by downing-and oh, so easily-the toughest fighter

 Half Moon Street had known in years.

    But with such fame came danger, all three knew. To be in

 the eyes of Morik the Rogue was to be in the sights of his

 deadly weapons. Perhaps the man would keep his promise and

 let things lay low for a time, but eventually Wulfgar's

 reputation would grow to become a distraction, and then,

 perhaps, a threat.

    Wulfgar seemed oblivious to it all. He finished his

 night's work with hardly another word, not even to Rossie

 Doone and his companions, who chose to stay- mostly because

 several of them needed quite a bit of potent drink to dull

 the pain of their wounds-but quietly so. And then, as was his

 growing custom, he took two bottles of potent liquor, took

 Delly by the arm, and retired to her room for half the night.

    When that half a night had passed he, the remaining

 bottle in hand, went to the docks to watch the reflection of

 the sunrise.

    To bask in the present, care nothing about the future,

 and forget the past.

    

                            Chapter 18

                        OF IMPS AND PRIESTS

                         AND A GREAT QUEST

  

    Your name and reputation have preceded you," Captain

 Vaines explained to Drizzt as he led the drow and his

 companions to the boarding plank. Before them loomed the

 broken skyline of Baldur's Gate, the great port city halfway

 between Waterdeep and Calimport. Many structures lined the

 impressive dock areas, from low warehouses to taller

 buildings set with armaments and lookout positions, giving

 the region an uneven, jagged feel.

    "My man found little trouble in gaining you passage on a

 river runner," Vaines went on.

    "Discerning folk who'd take a drow," Bruenor said dryly.

    "Less so if they'd take a dwarf," Drizzt replied without

 the slightest hesitation.

    "Captained and crewed by dwarves," Vaines explained. That

 brought a groan from Drizzt and a chuckle from Bruenor.

 "Captain Bumpo Thunderpuncher and his brother, Donat, and

 their two cousins thrice removed on their mother's side."

    "Ye know them well," Catti-brie remarked.

    "All who meet Bumpo meet his crew, and admittedly they

 are a hard foursome to forget," Vaines said. "My man had

 little trouble in gaining your passage, as I said, for the

 dwarves know well the tale of Bruenor Battlehammer and the

 reclamation of Mithral Hall. And of his companions, including

 the dark elf."

    "Bet ye'd never see the day when ye'd become a hero to a

 bunch o' dwarves," Bruenor remarked to Drizzt.

    "Bet I'd never see the day when I'd want to," the ranger

 replied.

    The group came to the rail then, and Vaines moved aside,

 holding his arm out toward the plank. "Farewell, and may your

 journey return you safely to your home," he said. "If I am in

 port or nearby when you return to Baldur's Gate, perhaps we

 will sail together again."

    "Perhaps," Regis politely replied, but he, like all the

 others, understood that, if they did get to Cadderly and get

 rid of the Crystal Shard, they meant to ask for Cadderly's

 help in bringing them magically to Luskan. They had

 approximately another two weeks of travel before them if they

 moved swiftly, but Cadderly could wind walk all the way back

 to Luskan in a matter of minutes. So said Drizzt and Catti-

 brie, who had taken such a walk with the powerful priest

 before. Then they could get on with the pressing business of

 finding Wulfgar.

    They entered Baldur's Gate without incident, and though

 Drizzt felt many stares following him, they were not ominous

 glares but looks of curiosity. The drow couldn't help

 contrast this experience with his other visit to the city,

 when he'd gone in pursuit of Regis who had been whisked away

 to Calimport by Artemis Entreri. On that occasion, Drizzt,

 with Wulfgar beside him, had entered the city under the

 disguise of a magical mask that had allowed him to appear as

 a surface elf.

    "Not much like the last time ye came through?" Catti-

 brie, who knew well the tale of the first visit asked, seeing

 Drizzt's gaze.

    "Always I wished to walk freely in the cities of the

 Sword Coast," Drizzt replied. "It appears that our work with

 Captain Deudermont has granted me that privilege. Reputation

 has freed me from some of the pains of my heritage."

    "Ye thinking that's a good thing?" the so perceptive

 woman asked, for she had noted clearly the slight wince at

 the corner of Drizzt's eye when he made the claim.

    "I do not know," Drizzt admitted. "I like that I can walk

 freely now in most places without persecution."

    "But it pains ye to think that ye had to earn the right,"

 Catti-brie finished perfectly. "Ye look at me, a human, and

 know that I had to earn no such thing. And at Bruenor and

 Regis, dwarf and halfling, and know that they can walk

 anywhere without earnin' a thing."

    "I do not begrudge any of you that," Drizzt replied. "But

 see their gazes?" He looked around at the many people walking

 the streets of Baldur's Gate, almost every one turning to

 regard the drow curiously, some with admiration in their

 eyes, some with disbelief.

    "So even though ye're walking free, ye're not walking

 free," the woman observed, and her nod told Drizzt that she

 understood then. Given the choice between facing the hatred

 of prejudice or the similarly ignorant looks of those viewing

 him as a curiosity piece, the latter seemed the better by

 far. But both were traps, both prisons, jailing Drizzt within

 the confines of the preceding reputation of a drow elf, of

 any drow elf, and thus limiting Drizzt to his heritage.

    "Bah, they're just a stupid lot," Bruenor interrupted.

    "Those who know you, know better," Regis added.

    Drizzt took it all in stride, all with a smile. Long ago

 he had abandoned any futile hopes of truly fitting in among

 the surface-dwellers-his kinfolk's well-earned reputation for

 treachery and catastrophe would always prevent that-and had

 learned instead to focus his energy on those closest to him,

 on those who had learned to see him beyond his physical

 trappings. And now here he was with three of his most trusted

 and beloved friends, walking freely, easily booking passage,

 and presenting no problems to them other than those created

 by the relic they had to carry. That was truly what Drizzt

 Do'Urden had desired from the time he had come to know Catti-

 brie and Bruenor and Regis, and with them beside him how

 could the stares, be they of hatred or of ignorant curiosity,

 bother him?

    No, his smile was sincere; if Wulfgar was beside them,

 then all the world would be right for the drow, the king's

 treasure at the end of his long and difficult road.

    Rai'gy rubbed his black hands together as the smallish

 creature began to form in the center of the magical circle he

 had drawn. He didn't know Gromph Baenre by anything more than

 reputation, but despite Jarlaxle's insistence that the

 archmage would be trustworthy on this issue, the mere fact

 that Gromph was drow and of the ruling house of

 Menzoberranzan worried Rai'gy profoundly. The name Gromph had

 given him was supposedly of a minor denizen, easily

 controlled, but Rai'gy couldn't know for certain until the

 creature appeared before him.

    A bit of treachery from Gromph could have had him opening

 a gate to a major demon, to Demogorgon himself, and the

 impromptu magical circle Rai'gy had drawn here in the sewers

 of Calimport would hardly prove sufficient protection.

    The wizard-priest relaxed a bit as the creature took

 shape-the shape, as Gromph had promised, of an imp. Even

 without the magical circle, a wizard-priest as powerful as

 Rai'gy would have little trouble in handling a mere imp.

    "Who is it that calls my name?" asked the imp in the

 guttural language of the Abyss, obviously more than a little

 perturbed and, both Rai'gy and Jarlaxle noted, a bit

 trepidatious-and even more so when he noted that his

 summoners were drow elves. "You should not bother Druzil. No,

 no, for he serves a great master," Druzil went on, speaking

 fluently in the drow tongue.

    "Silence!" Rai'gy commanded, and the little imp was

 compelled to obey. The wizard-priest looked to Jarlaxle.

    "Why do you protest?" Jarlaxle asked Druzil. "Is it not

 the desire of your kind to find access to this world?"

    Druzil tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, a pensive

 yet still apprehensive pose.

    "Ah, yes," the mercenary leader went on. "But of late,

 you have been summoned not by friends, but by enemies, so I

 have been told. By Cadderly of Caradoon."

    Druzil bared his pointy teeth and hissed at the mention

 of the priest. That brought a smile to the faces of both dark

 elves. Gromph Baenre, it seemed, had not steered them wrong.

    "We would like to pain Cadderly," Jarlaxle explained with

 a wicked grin. "Would Druzil like to help?"

    "Tell me how," the imp eagerly replied.

    "We need to know everything about the human," Jarlaxle

 explained. "His appearance and demeanor, his history and

 present place. We were told that Druzil, above all others in

 the Abyss, knows the man."

    "Hates the man," the imp corrected, and he seemed eager

 indeed. But suddenly he backed off, staring suspiciously at

 the two. "I tell you, and then you dismiss me," he remarked.

    Jarlaxle looked to Rai'gy, for they had anticipated such

 a reaction. The wizard-priest stood up, walked to the side in

 the tiny room, and pulled aside a screen, revealing a small

 kettle, bubbling and boiling.

    "I am without a familiar," Rai'gy explained. "An imp

 would serve me well."

    Druzil's coal black eyes flared with red fires. "Then we

 can pain Cadderly and so many other humans together," the imp

 reasoned.

    "Does Druzil agree?" Jarlaxle asked.

    "Does Druzil have a choice?" the imp retorted

 sarcastically.

    "As to serving Rai'gy, yes," the drow replied, and the

 imp was obviously surprised, as was Rai'gy. "As to revealing

 all that you know about Cadderly, no. It is too important,

 and if we must torment you for a hundred years, we shall."

    "Then Cadderly would be dead," Druzil said dryly.

    "The torment would remain pleasurable to me," Jarlaxle

 was quick to respond, and Druzil knew enough about dark elves

 to understand that this was no idle threat.

    "Druzil wishes to pain Cadderly," the imp admitted, dark

 eyes sparkling.

    "Then tell us," Jarlaxle said. "Everything."

    Later on that day, while Druzil and Rai'gy worked the

 magic spells that would bind them as master and familiar,

 Jarlaxle sat alone in the room he had taken in the sub-

 basement of House Basadoni. He had indeed learned much from

 the imp, most important of all that he had no desire to bring

 his band anywhere near the one named Cadderly Bonaduce. This

 was to Druzil's ultimate dismay. The leader of the Spirit

 Soaring, armed with magic far beyond even Rai'gy and

 Kimmuriel, might prove too great a foe. Even worse, Cadderly

 was apparently rebuilding an order of priests, surrounding

 himself with young and strong acolytes, enthusiastic

 idealists.

    "The worst kind," Jarlaxle said as Entreri entered the

 room. "Idealists," he explained to the assassin's perplexed

 expression. "Above all else, I hate idealists."

    "They are blind fools," Entreri agreed.

    "They are unpredictable fanatics," Jarlaxle explained.

 "Blind to danger and blind to fear as long as they think

 their path is according to the tenets of their particular

 god-figure."

    "And the leader of this other guild is an idealist?" a

 confused Entreri asked, for he thought he had been summoned

 to discuss his upcoming meeting with the remaining guilds of

 Calimport, to stop a war before it ever began.

    "No, no, it is another matter," Jarlaxle explained,

 waving his hand dismissively. "One that concerns my

 activities in Menzoberranzan and not here in Calimport. Let

 it not trouble you, for you have business more important by

 far."

    And Jarlaxle, too, put it out of his mind then, focusing

 on the more immediate problem. He had been surprised by

 Druzil's accounting of Cadderly, never imagining that this

 human would present such a problem. Though he held firm to

 his determination to keep his minions away from Cadderly, he

 was not dismayed, for he understood that Drizzt and his

 friends were still a long way from the great library known as

 the Spirit Soaring.

    It was a place Jarlaxle had no intention of ever allowing

 them to see.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Yes, a pleasure meetin' ye! Oh, a pleasure, King

 Bruenor, and to yer kin, me blessin's," Bumpo Thun-

 derpuncher, a rotund and short little dwarf with a fiery

 orange beard and a huge and flat nose that was pushed over to

 one side of his ruddy face, said to Bruenor for perhaps the

 tenth time since Bottom Feeder had put out of Baldur's Gate.

 The dwarven vessel was a square-bottomed, shallow twenty-

 footer with two banks of oars-though only one was normally in

 use-and a long aft pole for steering and for pushing off the

 bottom, Bumpo and his equally rotund and bumbling brother

 Donat had fallen all over themselves at the sight of the

 Eighth King of Mithral Hall. Bruenor had seemed honestly

 surprised that his name had grown to such proportions, even

 among his own race.

    Now, though, that surprise was turning to mere annoyance,

 as Bumpo and Donat and their two oar-pulling cousins, Yipper

 and Quipper Fishsquisher, continued to rain compliments,

 promises of fealty, and general slobber all over him.

    Sitting back from the dwarves, Drizzt and Catti-brie

 smiled. The ranger alternated his looks between Catti-brie-

 how he loved to gaze upon her when she wasn't looking-and the

 tumult of the dwarves. Then Regis- who was lying on his belly

 at the prow, head hanging over the front of the boat, his

 hands drawing pictures in the water-and back behind them to

 the diminishing skyline of Baldur's Gate.

    Again he thought about his passage through the city, as

 easy a time of it as the drow had ever known, including those

 occasions when he had worn the magical mask. He had earned

 this peace; they all had. Once this mission was completed and

 the crystal shard was safely in the hands of Cadderly, and

 once they had recovered Wulfgar and helped him through his

 darkness, then perhaps they could journey the wide world

 again, for no better reason than to see what lay over the

 next horizon and with no troubles beyond the fawning of

 bumbling dwarves.

    Truly Drizzt wore a contented smile, finding hope again,

 for Wulfgar and for them all. He could never have dreamed

 that he would ever find such a life on that day decades

 before when he had walked out of Menzoberranzan.

    It occurred to him then that his father, Zaknafein, who

 had died to give him this chance, was watching him at that

 moment from another plane, a goodly place for one as

 deserving as Zak.

    Watching him and smiling.

    

                             Part 4

  

                            KINGDOMS

    

    Whether a king's palace, a warrior's bastion, a wizard's

 tower, an encampment for nomadic barbarians, a farmhouse with

 stone-lined or hedge-lined fields, or even a tiny and

 unremarkable room up the back staircase of a ramshackle inn,

 we each of us spend great energy in carving out our own

 little kingdoms. From the grandest castle to the smallest

 nook, from the arrogance of nobility to the unpretentious

 desires of the lowliest peasant, there is a basic need within

 the majority of us for ownership, or at least for

 stewardship. We want to-need to-find our realm, our place in

 a world often too confusing and too overwhelming, our sense

 of order in one little corner of a world that oft looms too

 big and too uncontrollable.

    And so we carve and line, fence and lock, then protect

 our space fiercely with sword or pitchfork.

    The hope is that this will be the end of that road we

 chose to walk, the peaceful and secure rewards for a life of

 trials. Yet, it never comes to that, for peace is not a

 place, whether lined by hedges or by high walls. The greatest

 king with the largest army in the most invulnerable fortress

 is not necessarily a man at peace. Far from it, for the irony

 of it all is that the acquisition of such material wealth can

 work against any hope of true serenity. But beyond any

 physical securities there lies yet another form of unrest,

 one that neither the king nor the peasant will escape. Even

 that great king, even the simplest beggar will, at times, be

 full of the unspeakable anger we all sometimes feel. And I do

 not mean a rage so great that it cannot be verbalized but

 rather a frustration so elusive and permeating that one can

 find no words for it. It is the quiet source of irrational

 outbursts against friends and family, the perpetrator of

 temper. True freedom from it cannot be found in any place

 outside one's own mind and soul.

    Bruenor carved out his kingdom in Mithral Hall, yet found

 no peace there. He preferred to return to Icewind Dale, a

 place he had named home not out of desire for wealth, nor out

 of any inherited kingdom, but because there, in the frozen

 northland, Bruenor had come to know his greatest measure of

 inner peace. There he surrounded himself with friends, myself

 among them, and though he will not admit this-I am not

 certain he even recognizes it-his return to Icewind Dale was,

 in fact, precipitated by his desire to return to that

 emotional place and time when he and I, Regis, Catti-brie,

 and yes, even Wulfgar, were together. Bruenor went back in

 search of a memory.

    I suspect that Wulfgar now has found a place along or at

 the end of his chosen road, a niche, be it a tavern in Luskan

 or Waterdeep, a borrowed barn in a farming village, or even a

 cave in the Spine of the World. Because what Wulfgar does not

 now have is a clear picture of where he emotionally wishes to

 be, a safe haven to which he can escape. If he finds it

 again, if he can get past the turmoil of his most jarring

 memories, then likely he, too, will return to Icewind Dale in

 search of his soul's true home.

    In Menzoberranzan I witnessed many of the little kingdoms

 we foolishly cherish, houses strong and powerful and

 barricaded from enemies in a futile attempt at security. And

 when I walked out of Menzoberranzan into the wild Underdark,

 I, too, sought to carve out my niche. I spent time in a cave

 talking only to Guenhwyvar and

    sharing space with mushroomlike creatures that I hardly

 understood and who hardly understood me. I ventured to

 Blingdenstone, city of the deep gnomes, and could have made

 that my home, perhaps, except that staying there, so close to

 the city of drow, would have surely brought ruin upon those

 folk.

    And so I came to the surface and found a home with

 Montolio deBrouchee in his wondrous mountain grove, perhaps

 the first place I ever came to know any real measure of inner

 peace. And yet I came to learn that the grove was not my

 home, for when Montolio died I found to my surprise that I

 could not remain there.

    Eventually I found my place and found that the place was

 within me, not about me. It happened when I came to Icewind

 Dale, when I met Catti-brie and Regis and Bruenor. Only then

 did I learn to defeat the unspeakable anger within. Only

 there did I learn true peace and serenity.

    Now I take that calm with me, whether my friends

 accompany me or not. Mine is a kingdom of the heart and soul,

 defended by the security of honest love and friendship and

 the warmth of memories. Better than any land-based kingdom,

 stronger than any castle wall, and most importantly of all,

 portable.

    I can only hope and pray that Wulfgar will eventually

 walk out of his darkness and come to this same emotional

 place.

    

    -Drizzt Do'Urden

    

                            Chapter 19

                        CONCERNING WULFGAR

  

    Delly pulled her coat tighter about her, more trying to

 hide her gender than to fend off any chill breezes. She moved

 quickly along the street, skipping fast to try and keep up

 with the shadowy figure turning corners ahead of her, a man

 one of the other patrons of the Cutlass had assured her was

 indeed Morik the Rogue, no doubt come on another spying

 mission.

    She turned into an alleyway, and there he was. He was

 standing right before her, waiting for her, dagger in hand.

    Delly skidded to a stop, hands up in a desperate plea for

 her life. "Please Mister Morik!" she cried. "I'm just wantin'

 to talk to ye."

    "Morik?" the man echoed, and his hood slipped back

 revealing a dark-skinned face-too dark for the man Delly

 sought.

    "Oh, but I'm begging yer pardon, good sir," Delly

 stammered, backing away. "I was thinking ye were someone

 else." The man started to respond, but Delly hardly heard

 him, for she turned about and sprinted back toward the

 Cutlass.

    When she got safely away, she calmed and slowed enough to

 consider the situation. Ever since the fight with Tree Block

 Breaker, she and many other patrons had seen Morik the Rogue

 in every shadow, had heard him skulking about every corner.

 Or had they all, in their fears, just thought they had seen

 the dangerous man? Frustrated by that thought, knowing that

 there was indeed more than a little truth to her reasoning,

 Delly gave a great sigh and let her coat droop open.

    "Selling your wares, then, Delly Curtie?" came a question

 from the side.

    Belly's eyes widened as she turned to regard the shadowy

 figure against the wall, the figure belonging to a voice she

 recognized. She felt the lump grow in her throat. She had

 been looking for Morik, but now that he had found her on his

 terms she felt foolish indeed. She glanced down the street,

 back toward the Cutlass, wondering if she could make it there

 before a dagger found her back.

    "You have been asking about me and looking for me," Morik

 casually remarked. "I've been doing no such-"

    "I was one of those whom you asked," Morik interrupted

 dryly. His voice changed pitch and accent completely as he

 added, "So be tellin' me, missy, why ye're wantin' to be

 seein' that nasty little knife-thrower."

    That set Delly back on her heels, remembering well her

 encounter with an old woman who had said those very words in

 that very voice. And even if she hadn't recognized the

 phrasing or the voice, she wouldn't for a moment doubt the

 man who was well-known as Luskan's master of disguise. She

 had seen Morik on several occasions, intimately, many months

 before. Every time he had appeared differently to her, not

 just in physical features but in demeanor and attitude as

 well, walking differently, talking differently, even making

 love differently. Rumors circulating through Luskan for years

 had claimed that Morik was, in fact, several different men,

 and while Delly thought them exaggerated, she realized just

 then that if they turned out to be correct, she wouldn't be

 surprised.

    "So you have found me," Morik said firmly.

    Delly paused, not sure how to proceed. Only Morik's

 obvious agitation and impatience prompted her to blurt out,

 "I'm wanting ye to leave Wulfgar alone. He gave Tree Block

 what Tree Block asked for and wouldn't've gone after the man

 if the man didn't go after him."

    "Why would I care for Tree Block Breaker?" Morik asked,

 still using a tone that seemed to say that he had hardly

 given it a thought. "An irritating thug, if ever I knew one.

 Half Moon Street seems a better place without him."

    "Well, then ye're not for avenging that one," Delly

 reasoned. "But word's out that ye're none too fond o' Wulfgar

 and looking to prove-"

    "I have nothing to prove," Morik interrupted.

    "And what of Wulfgar then?" Delly asked.

    Morik shrugged noncommittally. "You speak as if you love

 the man, Delly Curtie."

    Delly blushed fiercely. "I'm speaking for Arumn Gardpeck,

 as well," she insisted. "Wulfgar's been good for the Cutlass,

 and as far as we're knowing, he's been not a bit o' trouble

 outside the place."

    "Ah, but it seems as if you do love him, Delly, and more

 than a bit," Morik said with a laugh. "And here I thought

 that Delly Curtie loved every man equally."

    Delly blushed again, even more fiercely.

    "Of course, if you do love him, then I, out of obligation

 to all other suitors, would have to see him dead," Morik

 reasoned. "I would consider that a duty to my fellows of

 Luskan, you see, for a treasure such as Delly Curtie is not

 to be hoarded by any one man."

    "I'm not loving him," Delly said firmly. "But I'm asking

 ye, for meself and for Arumn, not to kill him."

    "Not in love with him?" Morik asked slyly.

    Delly shook her head.

    "Prove it," Morik said, reaching out to pull the tie

 string on the neck of Dolly's dress.

    The woman teetered for just a moment, unsure. And then-

 for Wulfgar only, for she did not wish to do this-she nodded

 her agreement.

    Later on, Morik the Rogue lay alone in his rented bed,

 Delly long gone-to Wulfgar's bed, he figured. He took a deep

 draw on his pipe, savoring the intoxicating aroma of the

 exotic and potent pipeweed.

    He considered his good fortune this night, for he hadn't

 been with Delly Curtie in more than a year and had forgotten

 how marvelous she could be.

    Especially when it didn't cost him anything, and on this

 nigh, it most certainly had not. Morik had indeed been

 watching Wulfgar but had no intention of killing the man. The

 fate of Tree Block Breaker had shown him well how dangerous a

 proposition that attempt could prove.

    He did plan to have a long talk with Arumn Gardpeck,

 though, one that Delly would surely make easier now. There

 was no need to kill the barbarian, as long as Arumn kept the

 huge man in his place.

    Delly fumbled with her dress and cloak, all in a fit

 after her encounter with Morik, as she stumbled through the

 upstairs rooms of the inn. She turned a corner in the hallway

 and was surprised indeed to see the street looming in front

 of her, right in front of her, and before she could even stop

 herself, she was outside. And then the world was spinning all

 about.

    When she at last re-oriented herself, she glanced back

 behind her, seeing the open street under the moonlight, and

 the inn where she had left Morik many yards away. She didn't

 understand, for hadn't she been walking inside just a moment

 ago? And in an upstairs hallway? Delly merely shrugged. For

 this woman, not understanding something was not so uncommon

 an occurrence. She shook her head, figured that Morik had

 really set her thoughts to spinning that night, and headed

 back for the Cutlass.

    On the other side of the dimensional door that had

 transported the woman out of the inn, Kimmuriel Oblodra

 almost laughed aloud at the bumbling spectacle. Glad of his

 camouflaging piwafwi cloak, for Jarlaxle had insisted that he

 leave no traces of his ever being in Luskan, and Jarlaxle

 considered murdered humans as traces, the drow turned the

 corner in the hallway and lined up his next spatial leap.

    He winced at the notion, reminding himself that he had to

 handle this one delicately; he and Rai'gy had done some fine

 spying on Morik the Rogue, and Kimmuriel knew the man to be

 dangerous, for a human, at least. He brought up his kinetic

 barrier, focused all his thoughts on it, then enacted the

 dimensional path down the corridor and beyond Morik's door.

    There lay the man on his bed, bathed in the soft glow of

 his pipe and the embers from the hearth across the room.

 Morik sat up immediately, obviously sensing the disturbance,

 and Kimmuriel went through the portal, focusing his thoughts

 more strongly on the kinetic barrier. If the disorientation

 of the spatial walk defeated his concentration, he would

 likely be dead before his thoughts ever unscrambled.

    Indeed, the drow felt Morik come into him hard, felt the

 jab of a dagger against his belly. But the kinetic barrier

 held, and he absorbed the blow. As he found again his

 conscious focus and took two more hits, he pushed back

 against the man and wriggled out to the side, standing facing

 Morik and laughing at him.

    "You can not hurt me," he said haltingly, his command of

 the common tongue less than perfect, even with the magics

 Rai'gy had bestowed upon him.

    Morik's eyes widened considerably as he recognized the

 truth of the intruder, as his mind came to grips with the

 fact that a drow elf had come into his room. He glanced

 about, apparently seeking an escape route.

    "I come to talk, Morik," Kimmuriel explained, not wanting

 to have to chase this one all across Luskan. "Not to hurt

 you."

    Morik hardly seemed to relax at the assurance of a dark

 elf.

    "I bring gifts," Kimmuriel went on, and he tossed a small

 box onto the bed, its contents jingling. "Belaern, and

 pipeweed from the great cavern of Yoganith. Very good. You

 must answer questions."

    "Questions about what?" the still nervous thief asked,

 remaining in his defensive crouch, one hand turning his

 dagger over repeatedly. "Who are you?"

    "My master is..." Kimmuriel paused, searching for the

 right word. "Generous," he decided. "And my master is

 merciless. You deal with us." He stopped there and held up

 his hand to halt any reply before Morik could respond.

 Kimmuriel felt the energy tingling within him, and holding it

 had become a drain he could ill afford. He focused on a small

 chair, sending his thoughts into it, animating it and having

 it walk right past him.

    He touched it as it crossed before him, releasing all the

 energy of Morik's hits, shattering the wooden chair

 completely.

    Morik eyed him skeptically, without comprehension. "A

 warning?" he asked.

    Kimmuriel only smiled.

    "You did not like my chair?"

    "My master wishes to hire you," Kimmuriel explained. "He

 needs eyes in Luskan."

    "Eyes and a sword?" Morik asked, his own eyes narrowing.

    "Eyes and no more," Kimmuriel came back. "You tell me of

 the one called Wulfgar now, and then you will watch him

 closely and tell me about him when occasions have me return

 to you."

    "Wulfgar?" Morik muttered under his breath, fast growing

 tired of the name.

    "Wulfgar," answered Kimmuriel, who shouldn't have been

 able to hear, but of course, with his keen drow ears,

 certainly did. "You watch him."

    "I would rather kill him," Morik remarked. "If he is

 trouble-" He stopped abruptly as murderous intent flashed

 across Kimmuriel's dark eyes.

    "Not that," the drow explained. "Kyorlin ... watch him.

 Quietly. I return with more belaern for more answers." He

 motioned to the box on the bed and repeated the drow word,

 "Belaern," with great emphasis.

    Before Morik could ask anything else the room darkened

 utterly, a blackness so complete that the man couldn't see

 his hand if he had waved it an inch before his eyes. Fearing

 an attack, he went lower and skittered forward, dagger

 slashing.

    But the dark elf was long gone, was back through his

 dimensional door into the hallway, then through that onto the

 street, then back through Rai'gy's teleportation gate,

 walking all that way back to Calimport before the globe of

 darkness even dissipated in Morik's room. Rai'gy and

 Jarlaxle, both of whom had watched the exchange, nodded their

 approval.

    Jarlaxle's grasp on the surface world widened.

    Morik came out from under his bed tentatively when the

 embers of the hearth at last reappeared. What a strange night

 it had been! he thought. First with Delly, though that was

 not so unexpected, since she obviously loved Wulfgar and knew

 that Morik could easily kill him.

    But now ... a drow elf! Coming to Morik to talk about

 Wulfgar! Was everything on Luskan's street suddenly about

 Wulfgar? Who was this man, and why did he attract such

 amazing attention?

    Morik looked at the blasted chair-an impressive feat-

 then, frustrated, threw his dagger across the room so that it

 sank deep into the opposite wall. Then he went to the bed.

    "Belaern," he said quietly, wondering what that might

 mean. Hadn't the dark elf said something about pipeweed?

    He gingerly inspected the unremarkable box, looking for

 any traps. Finding none and reasoning that the dark elf could

 have used a more straightforward method of killing him if

 that had been the drow's intent, he set the box solidly on a

 night table and gently pulled its latch back and opened the

 lid.

    Gems and gold stared back at him, and packets of a dark

 weed.

    "Belaern," Morik said again, his smile gleaming as did

 the treasure before him. So he was to watch Wulfgar,

 something he had planned to do anyway, and he would be

 rewarded handsomely for his efforts.

    He thought of Delly Curtie; he looked at the contents of

 the opened box and the rumpled sheets.

    Not a bad night.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Life at the Cutlass remained quiet and peaceful for

 several days, with no one coming in to challenge Wulfgar

 after the demise of the legendary Tree Block Breaker. But

 when the peace finally broke, it did so in grand fashion. A

 new ship put in to Luskan harbor with a crew too long on the

 water and looking for a good row.

    And they found one in the form of Wulfgar, in a tavern

 they nearly pulled down around them.

    Finally, after many minutes of brawling, Wulfgar lifted

 the last squirming sailor over his head and tossed the man

 out through the hole in the wall created by the four previous

 men the barbarian had thrown out. Another stubborn sea dog

 tried to rush back in through the hole, and Wulfgar hit him

 in the face with a bottle.

    Then the big man wiped a bloody forearm across his bloody

 face, took up another bottle-this one fall-and staggered to

 the nearest intact table. Falling into a chair and taking a

 deep swig, Wulfgar grimaced as he drank, as the alcohol

 washed over his torn lip.

    At the bar, Josi and Arumn sat exhausted and also beaten.

 Wulfgar had taken the brunt of it, though; these two had

 minor cuts and bruises only.

    "He's hurt pretty bad," Josi remarked, motioning to the

 big man-to his leg in particular, for Wulfgar's pants were

 soaked in blood. One of the sailors had struck him hard with

 a plank. The board had split apart and torn fabric and skin,

 leaving many large slivers deeply embedded in the barbarian's

 leg.

    Even as Arumn and Josi regarded him, Delly moved beside

 him, falling to her knees and wrapping a clean cloth about

 the leg. She pushed hard on the deep slivers and made Wulfgar

 growl in agony. He took another deep drink of the pain-

 killing liquor.

    "Delly will see to him again," Arumn remarked. "That's

 become her lot in life."

    "A busy lot, then," Josi agreed, his tone solemn. "I'm

 thinking that the last crew Wulfgar dumped, Rossie Doone and

 his thugs, probably pointed this bunch in our direction.

 There'll always be another to challenge the boy."

    "And one day he will find his better. As did Tree Block

 Breaker," Arumn said quietly. "He'll not die comfortably in

 bed, I fear."

    "Nor will he outlive either of us," Josi added, watching

 as Delly, supporting the barbarian, led him out of the room.

    Just then another pair of rowdy sailors came rushing

 through the broken wall, running straight for the staggering

 Wulfgar's back. Just before they got to him, the huge

 barbarian found a surge of energy. He pushed Delly safely

 away, then spun, fist flying between the reaching arms of one

 man to slam him in the face. He dropped as though his legs

 had turned to liquid beneath him.

    The other sailor barreled into Wulfgar, but the big man

 didn't move an inch, just grunted and accepted the man's left

 and right combination.

    But then Wulfgar had him, grabbing tight under his arms

 and squeezing hard, lifting the man right from the floor.

 When the sailor tried to punch and kick at him, the barbarian

 shook him so violently that the man bit the tip right off his

 tongue.

    Then he was flying, Wulfgar taking two running steps and

 launching him for the hole in the wall.

    Wulfgar's aim wasn't true, though, and the man crashed

 against the wall a foot or so to the left.

    "I'll push him out for ye," Josi Puddles called from the

 bar.

    Wulfgar nodded, accepted Delly's arm again, and ambled

 away.

    "But he will take his share down with him, now won't he?"

 Arumn Gardpeck remarked with a chuckle.

    

                            Chapter 20

                         DANGLING A LOCKET

  

    My dear Domo," Sharlotta Vespers purred, moving over

 seductively to put her long fingers on the wererat leader's

 shoulders. "Can you not see the mutual gain to our alliance?"

    "I see Basadonis moving into my sewers," Domo Quillilo

 replied with a snarl. He was in human form now, but still

 carried characteristics-such as the way he twitched his nose-

 that seemed more fitting to a rat. "Where is the old wretch?"

    Artemis Entreri started to respond, but Sharlotta shot

 him a plaintive look, begging him to follow her lead. The

 assassin sat back in his chair, more than content to let

 Sharlotta handle the likes of Domo.

    "The old wretch," the woman began, imitating Domo's less-

 than-complimentary tone, "is even now securing a partnership

 with an even greater ally, one whom Domo would not wish to

 cross."

    The wererat's eyes narrowed dangerously; he was not

 accustomed to being threatened. "Who?" he asked. "Those

 smelly kobolds we found running through our sewers?"

    "Kobolds?" Sharlotta echoed with a laugh. "Hardly them.

 No, they are just fodder, the leading edge of our new ally's

 forces."

    The wererat leader pulled away from the woman, rose out

 of his chair, and strode across the room. He knew that a

 fight had occurred in the sewers and sub-basement of the

 Basadoni House. He knew that it concerned many kobolds and

 the Basadoni soldiers and also, so his spies had told him,

 some other creatures. These were unseen but obviously

 powerful, with cunning magics and tricks. He also knew,

 simply from the fact that Sharlotta still lived, that the

 Basadonis, some of them at least, had survived. Domo

 suspected that a coup had occurred with these two, Sharlotta

 and Entreri, masterminding it. They claimed that old man

 Basadoni was still alive, though Domo wasn't sure he believed

 that, but had admitted that Kadran Gordeon, a friend of

 Domo's, had been killed. Unfortunately, so said Sharlotta,

 but Domo understood that luck, good or bad, had nothing to do

 with it.

    "Why does he speak for the old man?" the wererat asked

 Sharlotta, nodding toward Entreri, and with more than a bit

 of distaste in his tone. Domo held no love for Entreri. Few

 wererats did since Entreri had murdered one of the more

 legendary of their clan in Calimport, a conniving and wicked

 fellow named Rassiter.

    "Because I choose to," Entreri cut in sharply before

 Sharlotta could intervene. The woman cast a sour look the

 assassin's way, then mellowed her visage as she turned back

 to Domo. "Artemis Entreri is well skilled in the ways of

 Calimport," she explained. "A proper emissary."

    "I am to trust him?" Domo asked incredulously.

    "You are to trust that the deal we offer you and yours is

 the best one you shall find in all the city," Sharlotta

 replied.

    "You are to trust that if you do not take the deal,"

 Entreri added, "you are thus declaring war against us. Not a

 pleasant prospect, I assure you."

    Domo's rodent's eyes narrowed again as he considered the

 assassin, but he was respectful enough, and wise enough, not

 to push Artemis Entreri any farther.

    "We will talk again, Sharlotta," he said. "You, me, and

 old man Basadoni." With that, the wererat took his leave with

 two Basadoni guards flanking him as soon as he exited the

 room and escorting him back to the subbasement where he could

 then find his way back into his sewer lair.

    He was hardly gone before a secret door opened on the

 wall behind Sharlotta and Entreri, and Jarlaxle strode into

 the room.

    "Leave us," the drow mercenary instructed Sharlotta, his

 tone showing that he wasn't overly pleased with the results.

    Sharlotta gave another sour look Entreri's way and

 started out of the room.

    "You performed quite admirably," Jarlaxle said to her,

 and she nodded.

    "But I failed," Entreri said as soon as the door closed

 behind the woman. "A pity."

    "These meetings mean everything to us," Jarlaxle said to

 him. "If we can secure our power and assure the other guilds

 that they are in no danger, I will have completed my first

 order of business."

    "And then trade can begin between Calimport and

 Menzoberranzan," Entreri said dramatically, sarcastically,

 sweeping his arms out wide. "All to the gain of

 Menzoberranzan."

    "All to the profit of Bregan D'aerthe," Jarlaxle

 corrected.

    "And for that, I am to care?" Entreri bluntly asked.

    Jarlaxle paused for a long moment to consider the man's

 posture and tone. "There are those among my group who fear

 that you do not have the will to carry this through," he

 said, and though the mercenary leader had allowed no hint of

 a threatening tone into his voice, Entreri understood the

 practices of the dark elves well enough to recognize the dire

 implications.

    "Have you no heart for this?" the mercenary leader asked.

 "Why, you are on the verge of becoming the most influential

 pasha ever to rule the streets of Calimport. Kings will bow

 before you and pay you homage and treasures."

    "And I will yawn in their ugly faces," Entreri replied.

    "Yes, it all bores you," Jarlaxle remarked. "Even the

 fighting. You have lost your goals and desires, thrown them

 away. Why? Is it fear? Or is it simply that you believe there

 is nothing left to attain?"

    Entreri shifted uncomfortably. Of course, he had known

 for a long time exactly the thing about which Jarlaxle was

 now speaking, but to hear another verbalize the emptiness

 within him struck him profoundly.

    "Are you a coward?" Jarlaxle asked.

    Entreri laughed at the absurdity of the remark, even

 considered leaping from his chair in a full attack upon the

 drow. He understood Jarlaxle's techniques and knew that he

 would likely be dead before he ever reached the taunting

 mercenary, but still he seriously considered the move. Then

 Jarlaxle hit him with a preemptive strike that put him back

 on his heels.

    "Or is it that you have witnessed Menzoberranzan?" he

 asked.

    That was indeed a huge part of it, Entreri knew, and his

 expression showed Jarlaxle clearly that he had struck a

 nerve.

    "Humbled?" the drow asked. "Did you find the sights of

 Menzoberranzan humbling?"

    "Daunting," Entreri corrected, his voice full of force

 and venom. "To see such stupidity on so grand a scale."

    "Ah, and you know it to be a stupidity that mirrors your

 own existence," Jarlaxle remarked. "All that Artemis Entreri

 strove to achieve he found played out before him on a grand

 scale in the city of drow."

    Still sitting, Entreri wrung his hands and bit his lip,

 edging closer, closer, to an attack.

    "Is your life, then, a lie?" an unperturbed Jarlaxle went

 on, and then he sent a verbal dagger flying for Entreri's

 heart. "That is what Drizzt Do'Urden claimed to you, is it

 not?"

    For just an instant, a flash of seething rage crossed

 Entreri's stoic face, and Jarlaxle laughed loudly. "At last,

 a sign of life from you!" he said. "A sign of desire, even if

 that desire was to tear out my heart." He gave a great sigh

 and lowered his voice. "Many of my companions do not think

 you worth the trouble," he admitted. "But I know better,

 Artemis Entreri. We are friends, you and I, and more alike

 than either of us wish to admit. You have greatness before

 you, if only I can show you the way."

    "You speak foolishness," Entreri said evenly.

    "That way lies through Drizzt Do'Urden," Jarlaxle

 continued without hesitation. "That is the hole in your

 heart. You must fight him again on terms of your choosing,

 because your pride will not allow you to go on with any other

 facet of your life until that business is settled."

    "I have fought him too many times already," Entreri

 retorted, his anger rising. "Never do I wish to see that one

 again."

    "So you may profess to believe," Jarlaxle said. "But you

 lie, to me and to yourself. Twice have you and Drizzt

 Do'Urden battled fairly, and twice has Entreri been sent

 running."

    "In these very sewers he was mine!" the assassin

 insisted. "And would have been, had not his friends come to

 his aid."

    "And on the cliff overlooking Mithral Hall it was he who

 proved the stronger."

    "No!" Entreri insisted, losing his calm edge for just a

 moment. "No. I had him beaten."

    "So you honestly believe, and thus you are trapped by the

 pain of the memories," Jarlaxle reasoned. "You told me of

 that fight in detail, and I did watch some of it from afar.

 We both know that either of you could have won that duel. And

 that is your turmoil. If Drizzt had cleanly beaten you and

 yet you had managed to survive, you could have gone on with

 your life. And if you had beaten him, whether he had lived or

 not, you would think no more about him. It is the not knowing

 that so gnaws at you, my friend. The pain of recognizing that

 there is one challenge that has not been decided, one

 challenge blocking all other aspirations you might find, be

 they a desire for greater power or merely for hedonistic

 pleasure, both easily within your reach."

    Entreri sat back, seeming more intrigued than angry then.

    "And that, too, I can give to you," Jarlaxle explained.

 "That which you desire most of all, if you'll only admit what

 is in your heart. I can continue my plans for Calimport

 without you now; Sharlotta is a fine front, and I am too

 firmly entrenched to be uprooted. Yet I do not desire such an

 arrangement. For my ventures to the surface, I want Artemis

 Entreri leading Bregan D'aerthe, the real Artemis Entreri and

 not this shell of your former self, too absorbed by this

 futile and empty challenge with the rogue Drizzt to

 concentrate on those skills that elevate you above all

 others."

    "Skills," Entreri echoed skeptically and turned away.

    But Jarlaxle knew he had gotten to the man, knew that he

 had dangled a treat before Entreri's eyes that the assassin

 could not resist. "There is one meeting remaining, the most

 important of the lot," Jarlaxle explained. "My drow

 associates and I will watch you closely when you speak with

 the leaders of the Rakers, Pasha Wroning's emissaries,

 Quentin Bodeau, and Dwahvel Tiggerwillies. Perform your

 duties well, and I will deliver Drizzt Do'Urden to you."

    "They will demand to see Pasha Basadoni," Entreri

 reasoned, and the mere fact that he was giving any thought at

 all to the coming meeting told Jarlaxle that his bait had

 been taken.

    "Have you not the mask of disguise?" Jarlaxle asked.

    Entreri halted for a moment, not understanding, but then

 he realized what Jarlaxle was speaking of: a magical mask he

 had taken from Catti-brie in Menzoberranzan. The mask he had

 used to impersonate Gromph Baenre, the archmage of the drow

 city, to sneak right into Gromph's quarters to secure the

 valuable Spider Mask that had allowed him to get into House

 Baenre in search of Drizzt. "I do not have it," he said

 brusquely, obviously not wanting to elaborate.

    "A pity," said Jarlaxle. "It would make things much

 simpler. But not to worry, for it will all be arranged," the

 drow promised, and with a sweeping bow he left the room, left

 Artemis Entreri sitting there, wondering.

    "Drizzt Do'Urden," the assassin said, and there was no

 venom in his voice now, just an emotionless resignation.

 Indeed, Jarlaxle had tempted him, had shown him a different

 side of his inner turmoil that he had not considered-not

 honestly, at least. After the escape from Menzoberranzan, the

 last time he had set eyes upon Drizzt, Entreri had told

 himself with more than a little convictio, that he was

 through with the rogue drow, that he hoped never to see

 wretched Drizzt Do'Urden again.

    But was that the truth?

    Jarlaxle had spoken correctly when he had insisted that

 the issue as to who was the better swordsman had not been

 decided between the two. They had fought against each other

 in two razor-close battles and other minor skirmishes, and

 had fought together on two separate occasions, in

 Menzoberranzan and in the lower tunnels of Mithral Hall

 before Bruenor's clan had reclaimed the place. All those

 encounters had shown them was that with regard to fighting

 styles and prowess they were practically mirrors of each

 other.

    In the sewers the fight had been even until Entreri spat

 dirty water in Drizzt's face, gaining the upper hand. But

 then that wretched Catti-brie with her deadly bow had

 arrived, chasing the assassin away. The fight on the ledge

 had been Entreri's, he believed, until the drow used an

 unfair advantage, using his innate magics to drop a globe of

 darkness over them both. Even then, Entreri had maintained a

 winning edge until his own eagerness had caused him to forget

 his enemy.

    What was the truth between them, then? Who would win?

    The assassin gave a great sigh and rested his chin in his

 palm, wondering, wondering. From a pocket inside his cloak he

 took out a small locket, one that Jarlaxle had taken from

 Catti-brie and that Entreri had recovered from the mercenary

 leader's own desk in Menzoberranzan, a locket that could lead

 him to Drizzt' Do'Urden.

    Many times over the past few years Artemis Entreri had

 stared at this locket, wondering over the whereabouts of the

 rogue, wondering what Drizzt might be doing, wondering what

 enemies he had recently battled.

    Many times the assassin had stared at the locket and

 wondered, but never before had he seriously considered using

 it.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    A noticeable spring enhanced Jarlaxle's always fluid step

 as he went from Entreri. The mercenary leader silently

 congratulated himself for the foresight of spending so much

 energy in hunting Drizzt Do'Urden and for his cunning in

 planting so powerful a seed within Entreri.

    "But that is the thing," he said to Rai'gy and Kim-muriel

 when he found them in Rai'gy's room, Jarlaxle finishing aloud

 his silent pondering. "Foresight, always."

    The two looked at him quizzically.

    Jarlaxle dismissed those looks with a laugh. "And where

 are we with our scouting?" the mercenary leader asked, and he

 was pleased to see that Druzil was still with the mage;

 Rai'gy's intentions to make the imp his familiar seemed to be

 well on course.

    The other two dark elves looked to each other, and it was

 their turn to laugh. Rai'gy began a quiet chant, moving his

 arms in slow and specified motions. Gradually he increased

 the speed of his waving, and he began turning about, his

 flowing robes flying behind him. A gray smoke arose about

 him, obscuring him and making it seem as if he were moving

 and twirling faster and faster.

    And then it stopped, and Rai'gy was gone. Standing in his

 place was a human dressed in a tan tunic and trousers, a

 light blue silken cape, and a curious-curiously like

 Jarlaxle's own-wide-brimmed hat. The hat was blue and banded

 in red, plumed on the right side, and with a porcelain and

 gold pendant depicting a candle burning above an open eye set

 in its center.

    "Greetings, Jarlaxle, I am Cadderly Bonaduce of

 Caradoon," the impostor said, bowing low.

    Jarlaxle didn't miss the fact that this supposed human

 spoke fluently in the tongue of the drow, a language rarely

 heard on the surface.

    "The imitation is perfect," the imp Druzil rasped. "So

 much does he look like the wretch Cadderly that I want to

 stick him with my poisoned tail!" Druzil finished with a flap

 of his little leathery wings that sent him up into a short

 flight, clapping his clawed hands and feet as he went.

    "I doubt that Cadderly Bonaduce of Caradoon speaks drow,"

 Jarlaxle said dryly.

    "A simple spell will correct that," Rai'gy assured his

 leader, and indeed Jarlaxle knew of such a spell, had often

 employed it in his travels and meetings with varied races.

 But that spell had its limitations, Jarlaxle knew.

    "I will look as Cadderly looks and speak as Cadderly

 speaks," Rai'gy went on, smiling at his cleverness.

    "Will you?" Jarlaxle asked in all seriousness. "Or will

 our perceptive adversary hear you transpose a subject and

 verb, more akin to the manner of our language, and will that

 clue him that all is not as it seems?"

    "I will be careful," Rai'gy promised, his tone showing

 that he did not appreciate anyone doubting his prowess.

    "Careful may not prove to be enough," Jarlaxle replied.

 "As magnificent as your work has been we can take no chances

 here."

    "If we are to go to Drizzt, as you said, then how?"

 Rai'gy asked.

    "We shall need a professional impersonator," Jarlaxle

 said, drawing a groan from both his drow companions.

    "What does he mean?" Druzil asked nervously.

    Jarlaxle looked to Kimmuriel. "Baeltimazifas is with the

 illithids," he instructed. "You can go to them."

    "Baeltimazifas," Rai'gy said with obvious disgust, for he

 knew the creature and hated it profoundly, as did most. "The

 illithids control the creature and set his fees exorbitantly

 high."

    "It will be expensive," added Kimmuriel, who had the most

 experience in dealing with the strange illithids, the mind

 flayers.

    "The gain is worth the price," Jarlaxle assured them

 both.

    "And the possibility of treachery?" Rai'gy asked. "Those

 kinds, both Baeltimazifas and the illithids, have never been

 known to follow through with bargains nor to fear the drow or

 any other race."

    "Then we will be the first and best at treachery,"

 Jarlaxle insisted, nodding, smiling, and seeming completely

 unafraid. "And what of this Wulfgar who was left behind?"

    "In Luskan," Kimmuriel replied. "He is of no consequence.

 A minor player and nothing more, unconnected to the rogue at

 this time."

    Jarlaxle assumed a pensive posture, putting all the

 pieces together. "Minor in fact but not in tale," he decided.

 "If you went to Drizzt in the guise of Cadderly would you

 have enough remaining power-clerical powers and not wizardly-

 to magically bring them all to Luskan?"

    "Not I and not Cadderly," Rai'gy replied. "They are too

 many for any clerical transport spell. I could take one or

 two, but not four. Nor could Cadderly, unless he is possessed

 of powers I do not understand."

    Again Jarlaxle paused, thinking, thinking. "Not Luskan,

 then," he remarked, more thinking aloud than talking to his

 companions. "Baldur's Gate, or even a village near that city,

 will suit our needs." It all fell into place for the cunning

 mercenary leader then, the lure that would help separate

 Drizzt and friends from the crystal shard. "Yes, this could

 be rather enjoyable."

    "And profitable?" Kimmuriel asked.

    Jarlaxle laughed. "I cannot have one without the other."

    

                            Chapter 21

                          TIMELY WOUNDS

  

    We always put in here," Bumpo Thunder-puncher explained

 as Bottom Feeder bumped hard against a fallen tree

 overhanging the river. The jarring shock nearly sent Regis

 and Bruenor tumbling off the side of the boat. "Don't like

 carrying too many supplies all at once," the rotund dwarf

 explained. "Me brother and cousins eat 'em to dangnabbit

 fast!"

    Drizzt nodded-they did indeed need some food, mostly

 because of the gluttonous dwarves-and glanced warily at the

 trees clustered about the river. Several times over the

 previous two days the friends had noted movements shadowing

 their journey, and once Regis had seen the pursuers clearly

 enough to identify them as a band of goblins. By the dogged

 pursuit, and any pursuit longer than a few hours would be

 considered dogged by goblin standards, it seemed as if

 Crenshinibon was calling out yet again.

    "How long to resupply and get back out?" the drow asked.

    "Oh, not more'n an hour," Bumpo replied.

    "Half that time," Bruenor bade him. "And me and me

 halfling friend'll help." He nodded to Drizzt and

    Catti-brie then, and they took the signal; Bruenor hadn't

 included them because he knew they had to go out and do a bit

 of scouting.

    It didn't take the seasoned pair of hunters long to find

 goblin sign, the tracks of at least a score of the wicked

 little creatures. And not far away. The goblins had

 apparently veered from the river at this point, and when

 Drizzt and Catti-brie moved to higher ground, looking east to

 see more of the silvery snake that was the river bending

 about up ahead, the two understood the goblins' reasoning.

 Bottom Feeder had been going generally north for the past

 hour, for the river hooked at this juncture, but the boat

 would soon turn back east, then south, then back to the east

 once more. Crossing the fairly open ground moving directly to

 the east, the goblin band would get to the banks in the east

 far ahead of the dwarves' boat.

    "Ah, they're knowing the river then," Bumpo said when

 Drizzt and Catti-brie returned to report their findings.

 "They'll be beatin' us to the spot, and the river's narrower

 there, not wide enough for us to avoid a fight."

    Bruenor turned a serious gaze upon Drizzt. "How many're

 ye figuring, elf?" he asked.

    "A score," Drizzt replied. "Perhaps as many as thirty."

    "Let's be picking our place for fighting, then," Bruenor

 said. "If we're to fight, then let it be on ground of our own

 choosing."

    Everyone around noted the lack of dismay in

    Bruenor's tone.

    "They'll be seein' the boat a long way off," Bumpo

 explained. "If we're to keep it here, tied up, they might be

 catching on."

    Drizzt was shaking his head before the dwarf ever

 finished. "Bottom Feeder will go along as planned," he

 explained, "but without we three." He indicated Bruenor and

 Catti-brie, then moved near to Regis, unstrapping his belt so

 that he could slide off the pouch that held the Crystal

 Shard. "This remains on the boat," he explained to the

 halfling. "Above all else, keep it safe."

    "So they will come after the boat, and you three will

 come after them," Regis reasoned, and Drizzt nodded.

    "Be quick, if you please," the halfling added.

    "What're ye grumbling over, Rumblebelly?" Bruenor asked

 with a chuckle. "Ye just loaded a ton o' food on the boat,

 and knowing ye the way I do I'm figuring there won't be much

 left for me when we get back aboard!"

    Regis looked down doubtfully at the pouch, but his face

 did brighten as he turned to regard the supply-laden boat.

    They parted company then, Bumpo, his crew, and Regis

 pushed off from the impromptu tree landing back into the

 swift currents. Before they had gone far Drizzt, on the

 riverbank, took out his onyx figurine, set it down, and

 called for his panther companion. Then he and his three

 companions set off, running straight to the east, following

 the same course as the goblin troupe.

    Guenhwyvar took the point position, blending into the

 brush, barely seeming to stir the grasses and bushes as she

 passed. Drizzt came along next, working as liaison between

 the cat and the other two, who brought up the rear, Bruenor

 with his axe comfortably across his shoulder and Catti-brie

 with Taulmaril in hand, arrow notched and ready.

    "Well, if we're to be fightin', then this'll be the

 place," Donat said a short while later as Bottom Feeder

 rounded a bend in the river, crossing into a region of

 narrower banks and swifter current and with many tree limbs

 overhanging the water.

    Regis took one look at the area and groaned, not liking

 the prospects at all. Goblins could be anywhere, he realized,

 taking a good measure of the many bushes and hillocks. He

 took little comfort in the apparent giddiness of the four

 dwarves, for he had been around dwarves long enough to know

 that they were always happy before a fight, no matter the

 prospects.

    And even more disconcerting to the halfling came a voice

 within his head, a tempting, teasing voice, reminding him

 that with a word he could construct a crystalline tower-a

 tower that a thousand goblins couldn't breach-if Regis just

 took control of the crystal shard. The goblins wouldn't even

 try to take the tower, Regis knew, for Crenshinibon would

 work with him to control the little wretches.

    They could not resist.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Drizzt, looking back with his back against a tree some

 distance ahead of Bruenor and Catti-brie, motioned for the

 woman to hold her shot. He, too, had seen the goblin on the

 branch above, a goblin intent on the river ahead and taking

 no note of the approaching friends. No need to tell the whole

 troupe that danger was about, the ranger decided, and Catti-

 brie's thunderous bow would certainly raise the general

 alarm.

    So up the tree went the drow ranger, one scimitar in

 hand. With amazing stealth and equal agility, he made a

 branch level with the goblin. Then, balancing perfectly

 without using his free hand, he closed suddenly in five quick

 steps. The drow clamped his empty hand around the creature's

 side, through bow and bowstring and over the surprised

 goblin's mouth, and drove his scimitar into the creature's

 back, hooking the blade upward as he went to slice smoothly

 through heart and lung. He held the goblin for a few seconds,

 letting it descend into the complete blackness of death, then

 carefully set it down over the branch, laying the crude bow

 atop it.

    Drizzt looked all around for Guenhwyvar, but the panther

 was nowhere to be seen. He had instructed the cat to hold

 back until the main fighting started and trusted that

 Guenhwyvar would do as told.

    That fight fast approached, Drizzt knew, for the goblins

 were all about, huddled in bushes and in trees near to the

 riverbank. He didn't like the prospects for a quick victory

 here; the region was too jumbled, with too many physical

 barriers and too many hiding holes. He would have liked the

 luxury of spending an hour or more locating all the goblins.

    But then Bottom Feeder came into sight, rounding a bend

 not so far away.

    Drizzt looked back to his waiting friends, motioning

 strongly for them to come on fast.

    A roar from Bruenor and a sizzling arrow from Taulmaril

 led the way, Catti-brie's missile cutting by the base of

 Drizzt's tree, diving through some underbrush and taking a

 goblin in the hip, dropping it squirming to the ground.

    Three other goblins emerged from that same brush, running

 out and screaming wildly.

    Those screams fast diminished as the drow, now holding

 both his deadly blades, leaped down atop them. He struck hard

 as he crashed in, stabbing one to the side, and felling the

 one under him by tucking the hilt of his second blade tight

 against his torso and using his momentum to drive it halfway

 through the unfortunate creature.

    And he nearly collided in midair with another soaring,

 dark form. Guenhwyvar, leaping strong, crossed by the

 descending drow and crashed into yet another bush atop a

 shadowy goblin form.

    The one goblin of the three to escape Drizzt's initial

 leap staggered to the side against the trunk of the same tree

 from which Drizzt had jumped and turned about, spear raised

 to throw.

    It heard the cursing howl and tried to turn its angle to

 the newest foe, but Bruenor came in too quick, moving within

 the sharpened tip of the long weapon and transferring his

 momentum into his overhead axe with a skidding stop, every

 muscle in his body snapping forward.

    "Damn!" the dwarf grumbled, realizing that it might take

 him some time to extricate the embedded weapon from the split

 skull.

    Even as the dwarf tugged and twisted, Catti-brie came

 running by, dropping to one knee and letting fly another

 arrow. This one blasted a goblin from a tree. She dropped her

 bow and in one fluid motion drew out Khazid'hea, her

 powerfully enchanted sword. The blade glowing fiercely, she

 ran on.

    Still Bruenor tugged.

    Drizzt, both the other two goblins quite dead, leaped up

 and ran on, disappearing through a small cluster of trees.

    Up ahead, Guenhwyvar ran up the side of a tree, and the

 terrified goblins on the lowest branches both threw their

 spears errantly and tried to leap to the ground. One made it;

 the other got caught in midair by a swiping panther claw and

 was pulled, squirming wildly, back up to its death.

    "Damn," Bruenor said again, tugging and tugging, missing

 all the fun. "I gotta hit the stinkin' things softer!"

    He couldn't raise the crystal tower on the boat, of

 course, but right over the side, even in the river. Yes, the

 bottom levels of the structure might be under the water, but

 Crenshinibon would still show him a way in.

    "They got spears!" Bumpo Thunderpuncher cried. "To the

 wall! To the wall!" On cue, the dwarf captain and his three

 kinsfolk dived down to the deck and rolled up against the

 blocking side wall closest to the goblin-infested shore.

 Donat, who got there first, quickly broke open a wooden

 locker, each dwarf taking up a crossbow and huddling tight

 against the shielding planking while loading.

    All of the movement finally caught Regis's eye, and he

 shook away his visions of a crystal tower, hardly believing

 that he could have even considered raising the thing, and

 looked, quite startled, at the dwarves. He looked up as the

 boat drifted beneath an overhanging limb and saw a goblin

 there, its arm poised to throw.

    The four dwarves rolled in unison to their backs, lining

 up their crossbows and letting fly. Each bolt hit its mark,

 driving into the goblin and jerking it up and over so that it

 tumbled into the river behind the floating craft.

    But not before it had thrown the spear and thrown it

 well.

    Regis yelped and tried to dodge, but too late. He felt

 the spear dive into the back of his shoulder. The halfling

 heard, with sickening clarity, the tip of it prodding right

 through him to knock against the deck. He was down, facedown,

 and he heard himself howling, though his voice came from no

 conscious act.

    Then he felt the uneven edges of the decking planks as

 the dwarves pulled him to the side, and he heard, as if from

 a great distance, Donat crying, "They killed him! They killed

 him to death!"

    And then he was alone, and so cold, and he heard the

 splashing of water as swimming goblins made the edge of the

 boat.

    Down from a high branch came the panther, graceful and

 beautiful, a soaring black arrow. She went past one goblin,

 one paw kicking out swiftly enough to rake out the oblivious

 creature's throat, and then crashed upon another pair,

 bearing one down under her great weight and ripping the life

 from it in an instant, then skipping on to the next before it

 could rise and flee.

    The goblin rolled to its back, flailed its arms wildly to

 try to fend off the great cat. But Guenhwyvar was too strong

 and too fast and soon got her maw clamped about the

 creature's throat.

    Not far to the side, Drizzt and Catti-brie, independently

 in pursuit of goblins, discovered each other in a small

 clearing and found that they had become ringed by goblins,

 who, seeing a sudden advantage, leaped out of the brush and

 encircled the pair.

    "A bit o' good luck, I'd say," Catti-brie remarked with a

 wink to her friend, and they fell together defensively, back-

 to-back.

    The goblins tried to coordinate their attacks, calling to

 each other, opposite ones coming in at the same time, while

 those beside them waited to see if the first attack might

 leave the two humans vulnerable.

    They simply didn't understand.

    Drizzt and Catti-brie rolled about each other's back,

 thus changing their angles of attack, the drow going after

 those goblins that had come in at Catti-brie and vice versa.

 Out Drizzt came, scimitars flashing in circling motions,

 hooking inside spear shafts and turning them harmlessly

 aside. A subtle shift in wrist angle, a quick step forward,

 and both goblins staggered backward, guts torn.

    Across the way Catti-brie went down low under the high

 thrust of one spear and sent Khazid'hea slashing across, the

 wickedly edged blade taking the goblin's leg off cleanly at

 the knee. A goblin to the side tried to adjust its spear

 angle down at the woman, but she caught the weapon shaft with

 her free hand and turned it aside, using it as leverage to

 propel her up and out, a single thrust taking the creature in

 the chest.

    "Straight on!" Drizzt yelled, rushing by and hooking

 Catti-brie under the shoulder, helping her to her feet and

 pushing her along in his charge, their momentum shattering

 the line of the frightened creatures.

    Those behind didn't dare follow that charge, except for

 one, and thus Drizzt knew that Crenshinibon had crazed this

 one.

    In the span of three heartbeats it lay dead.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Still behind the main fighting, Bruenor heard the

 commotion, and that made him madder than ever. Twisting and

 pulling, tugging with all his strength, the dwarf nearly

 toppled as his axe came free-almost free, he realized with

 revulsion, for instead of pulling the heavy blade from the

 creature's skull he had torn the dead goblin's head right

 off.

    "Well, that's pretty," he said with disgust, and then he

 had no more time to complain as a pair of goblins crashed out

 of the brush near to him. He hit the closest hard, a

 roundabout throw that slammed its kin's head right into its

 belly and sent it staggering backward.

    Weaponless, Bruenor took a hit from the second goblin, a

 club smash across his shoulders that stung but hardly slowed

 him. He leaped in close, moving right before the goblin, and

 snapped his forehead into the creature's face, sending it

 reeling and taking its club from its weakened grasp as it

 staggered.

    Before the goblin could retrieve its bearings, that club

 smashed down hard once, twice, thrice, and left the thing

 twitching helplessly on the ground.

    Bruenor spun about and launched the club into the legs of

 the first goblin as it tried to charge at his back, tripping

 the creature and sending it headlong to the ground. Bruenor

 quickstepped over it, back to the brush to retrieve his axe.

    "Enough playin'!" the dwarf roared. Finesse aside, he

 slammed his axe against the nearest tree trunk, shattering

 away the remnants of the head.

    Up and spinning, the goblin took one look at the

 ferocious dwarf and his axe, took one look at the decapitated

 remains of Bruenor's first kill, and turned and ran.

    "No ye don't!" the dwarf howled, and he let fly an

 overhead throw that sent his axe spinning hard into the

 goblin's back, dropping it facedown into the dirt.

    Bruenor ran by, thinking to pull the axe free in full

 stride, heading to rejoin his companions.

    It was stuck again, this time hooked on the dying

 goblin's spine.

    "Orc-brained, troll-smellin', bug-eater!" Bruenor cursed.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Donat worked hard over Regis, trying to hold the spear

 shaft steady so the embedded weapon wouldn't do any more

 damage, while his three kinfolk rushed about frantically,

 working furiously themselves to keep Bottom Feeder free of

 goblins. One creature nearly made the deck, but Bumpo smashed

 his crossbow across its face, shattering the weapon and the

 goblin's jaw.

    The dwarf howled in glee, lifted the stunned creature

 above his head and threw it into two others that were trying

 to come over the side, dropping all three back into the

 water.

    His two cousins proved equally effective and equally

 damaging to expensive crossbows, but the boat stayed clear of

 goblins, soon outdistancing those giving stubborn pursuit in

 the swift current.

    That allowed Bumpo to take up Donat's crossbow, the only

 one still working, and pluck a few in the water.

    Most of the creatures did make the other bank but had

 seen enough of the fight-too much, actually-and simply ran

 off into the underbrush.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Bruenor planted his heavy boots on the back of the still-

 groaning goblin, spat in both his hands, took up his axe

 handle, and gave a great tug, ripping the head and half the

 goblin's backbone free.

    The dwarf went over in a backward roll to wind up sitting

 in the dirt.

    "Oh, even prettier," he remarked, noting the torn

 creature and the length of spine lying across his extended

 legs. He shook his head and hopped to his feet, running fast

 to join his friends, but by the time he arrived the battle

 had ended. Drizzt and Catti-brie stood amidst several dead

 creatures, and Guenhwyvar circled about, searching for any

 others.

    But those held in Crenshinibon's mental grasp were

 already dead, and those still of free will were long gone.

    "Tell the stupid crystal shard to call in thicker-skinned

 creatures," Bruenor grumbled. He gave Drizzt a sidelong

 glance as they headed for the riverbank. "Ye're sure we got

 to get rid of that thing?"

    Drizzt only smiled and ran along. One goblin did come out

 of the river on this side, but Guenhwyvar buried it before

 the friends ever got close.

    Up ahead, Bumpo maneuvered Bottom Feeder into a small

 side pool out of the main current. The three friends laughed

 all the way, replaying the battle and talking lightheartedly

 about how good it was to be back on the road.

    Their expressions changed abruptly when they saw Regis

 lying on the deck, pale and very still.

    From a dark room in the subbasement of House Basadoni,

 Jarlaxle and his wizard-priest assistant watched it all.

    "This could not be any easier," the mercenary leader

 remarked with a laugh. He turned to Rai'gy. "Find yourself a

 human persona in the guise of a priest much like Cadderly and

 in the same ceremonial dress. Not his hat, though," the

 mercenary added after a short pause. "That might constitute

 rank, I believe, or prove more a matter of Cadderly's

 personal taste."

    "But Kimmuriel has gone for Baeltimazifas," Rai'gy

 protested.

    "And you shall accompany the doppleganger to Drizzt and

 his companions," Jarlaxle explained, "as a student of

 Cadderly Bonaduce's Spirit Soaring library. Prepare spells of

 powerful healing."

    Rai'gy's eyes widened with surprise. "I am to pray to

 Lady Lolth for spells with which to heal a halfling?" he

 asked incredulously. "And you believe that she will grant me

 such spells, given that intent?"

    Jarlaxle, supremely confident, nodded. "She will, because

 bestowing such spells shall further the cause of her drow,"

 he explained, and he smiled widely, knowing that the outcome

 of the battle had just made his life a lot easier and much

 more interesting.

    

                            Chapter 22

                           SAVING GRACE

  

    Regis gasped and groaned in agony, squirming just a bit,

 which only made things worse for the poor halfling. Every

 movement made the spear shaft quiver, sending waves of

 burning pain through his body.

    Bruenor brushed aside any soft emotions and blinked away

 any tears, realizing that he would be doing his grievously

 injured friend no favors by showing any sympathy at all. "Do

 it quick," he said to Drizzt. The dwarf knelt down over

 Regis, setting himself firmly, pressing the halfling by the

 shoulders and putting one knee on his back to hold him

 perfectly still.

    Drizzt wasn't sure how to proceed. The spear was barbed,

 that much he recognized, but to push it all the way through

 and out the other side seemed too brutal a technique for

 Regis to possibly survive. Yet, how could Drizzt cut the

 spear quickly enough and smoothly enough so that Regis did

 not have to endure such unbearable agony? Even a minor shift

 in the long shaft had the halfling groaning in pain. What

 might the jarring of the shaft being hacked by a scimitar do

 to him?

    "Take it in both yer hands," Catti-brie instructed. "One

 hand on the wound, t'other on the spear, right above where ye

 want the thing broken."

    Drizzt looked at her and saw that she had Taulmaril in

 hand again, an arrow readied. He looked from the bow to the

 spear and understood her intent. While he doubted the

 potential of such a technique, he simply had no other

 answers. He gripped the spear shaft tightly just above the

 entry wound, then again two handsbreadths up. He looked to

 Bruenor, who secured his hold on Regis even more-drawing

 another whimper from the poor halfling-and nodded grimly.

    Drizzt then nodded to Catti-brie who bent low, lining up

 her shot and the angle of the arrow after it passed through,

 so that it would not hit one of her friends. If she was not

 perfect, she realized, or even if she simply was not lucky,

 the arrow might deflect badly, and then they'd have another

 seriously wounded companion lying on the deck beside Regis.

 With that thought in mind Catti-brie relaxed her bowstring a

 bit, but then Regis whimpered again, and she understood that

 her poor little friend was fast running out of time.

    She drew back, took perfect aim, and left fly, the

 blinding, lightning-streaking arrow sizzling right through

 the shaft cleanly, and soaring into, and through the opposite

 deck wall and off across the river.

    Drizzt, stunned by the sudden flash even though he had

 expected the shot, held in place for just a moment. After

 allowing his senses to catch up with the scene he handed the

 broken piece of the shaft to Bumpo.

    "Lift him gently," the drow instructed Bruenor, who did

 so, raising the halfling's injured shoulder slowly from the

 deck.

    Then, with a plaintive and helpless look to all about,

 the drow grasped the remaining piece of shaft firmly and

 began to push.

    Regis howled and screamed and wriggled too much for

 sympathetic Drizzt to continue. At a loss, he let go of the

 shaft and held his hands out helplessly to Bruenor.

    "The ruby pendant," Catti-brie remarked suddenly,

 dropping to her knees beside her friends. "We'll get him

 thinking of better things." She moved quickly as Bruenor

 lifted the groaning Regis a bit higher, reaching into the

 front of the halfling's shirt and pulling forth the dazzling

 ruby pendant.

    "Watch it close," Catti-brie said to Regis several times.

 She held the gemstone, spinning alluringly at the end of its

 chain before the halfling's half-closed eyes. Regis's head

 started to droop, but Catti-brie grabbed him by the chin and

 forced him steady.

    "Ye remember the party after we rescued ye from Pook?"

 she asked calmly, forcing a wide smile across her face.

    Gradually she brought him into her words with more

 coaxing, more reminding of that enjoyable affair, one in

 which Regis had become quite intoxicated. And intoxicated was

 what the halfling seemed to be now. He was groaning no more,

 his gaze locked on the spinning gemstone.

    "Ah, but didn't ye have the fun of it in the pillowed

 room?" the woman said, speaking of the harem in Pook's house.

 "We thought ye'd never come forth!" As she spoke, she looked

 to Drizzt and nodded. The drow took up the remaining piece of

 embedded shaft once more and, with a look to Bruenor to make

 certain that the dwarf had Regis properly secured and braced,

 he slowly began to push.

    Regis winced as the rest of the wide-bladed head tore

 through the front of his shoulder but offered no real

 resistance and no screaming. Drizzt soon had the spear fully

 extracted.

    It came out with a gush of blood, and both Drizzt and

 Bruenor had to work fast and furiously to stem the flow. Even

 then, as they lay Regis gently on his back, they saw his arm

 discoloring.

    "He's bleeding inside," Bruenor said through gritted

 teeth. "We'll be taking the arm off if we can't fix it!"

    Drizzt didn't respond, just went back to work on his

 small friend, moving aside the bandages and trying to reach

 his nimble fingers right into the wound to pinch the blood

 flow.

    Catti-brie kept up her soothing talk, doing a marvelous

 job of distracting the halfling, concentrating so fully on

 the task before her that she managed to minimize her nervous

 glances Drizzt's way.

    Had Regis seen the drow's face the spell of the ruby

 pendant might have shattered. For Drizzt understood the

 trouble here and understood that his little friend was in

 real danger. He couldn't stop the flow. Bruenor's drastic

 measure of amputating the arm might be necessary, and even

 that, Drizzt understood, would likely kill the halfling.

    "Ye got it?" Bruenor asked again and again. "Ye got it?"

    Drizzt grimaced, looking pointedly at Bruenor's already

 bloodstained axe blade, and went at his work more

 determinedly. Finally, he relaxed his grip on the vein just a

 bit, easing, easing, breathing a bit easier as he lessened

 the pressure and felt no more blood spurting from the tear.

    "I'm taking the damned arm!" Bruenor declared,

 misinterpreting Drizzt's resigned look.

    The drow held up his hand and shook his head. "It is

 stemmed," he announced.

    "But for how long?" Catti-brie asked, genuinely

 concerned.

    Again Drizzt shook his head helplessly.

    "We should be going," Bumpo Thunderpuncher remarked,

 seeing that the commotion about Regis had subsided. "Them

 goblins might not be far."

    "Not yet," Drizzt insisted. "We cannot move him until

 we're sure the wound will not reopen."

    Bumpo gave a concerned look to his brother. Then both of

 them glanced nervously at their thrice-removed cousins.

    But Drizzt was right, of course, and Regis could not be

 immediately moved. All three friends stayed close to him;

 Catti-brie kept the ruby pendant in hand, should its calming

 hypnosis prove necessary. For the time being, though, Regis

 knew nothing at all, nothing beyond the relieving blackness

 of unconsciousness.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "You are nervous," Kimmuriel Oblodra remarked, obviously

 taking great pleasure in seeing the normally unshakable

 Jarlaxle pacing the floor.

    Jarlaxle stopped and stared at the psionicist

 incredulously. "Nonsense," he insisted. "Baeltimazifas

 performed his impersonation of Pasha Basadoni perfectly."

    It was true enough. At the important meeting that same

 morning, the doppleganger had impersonated Pasha Basadoni

 perfectly, no small feat considering that the man was dead

 and Baeltimazifas could not probe his mind for the subtle

 details. Of course, his role in the meeting was minor-

 hindered, so Sharlotta had explained to the other

 guildmasters, by the fact that he was very old and not in

 good health. Pasha Wroning had been convinced by the

 doppelganger's performance. With the powerful Wroning

 satisfied, Domo Quillilo of the wererats and the younger and

 more nervous leaders of the Rakers could hardly protest. Calm

 had returned to Calimport's streets, and all, as far as the

 others were concerned, was as it had been.

    "He told the other guildmasters that which they desired

 to hear," Kimmuriel said.

    "And so we shall do the same with Drizzt and his

 friends," Jarlaxle assured the psionicist.

    "Ah, but you know that the target this time is more

 dangerous," said the ever-observant Kimmuriel. "More alert,

 and more ... drow."

    Jarlaxle stopped and stared hard at the Oblodran, then

 laughed aloud, admitting his edginess. "Ever has it proven

 interesting where Drizzt Do'Urden is concerned," he

 explained. "This one has again and again outrun, outsmarted,

 or merely out-lucked the most powerful enemies one can

 imagine. And look at him," he added, motioning to the magical

 reflective pool Rai'gy had left in place. "Still he survives,

 nay, thrives. Matron Baenre herself wanted to make a trophy

 of that one's head, and she, not he, has passed from this

 world."

    "We do not desire his death," Kimmuriel reminded. "Though

 that, too, might prove quite profitable."

    Jarlaxle shook his head fiercely. "Never that," he said

 determinedly.

    Kimmuriel spent a long while studying the mercenary

 leader. "Could it be that you have come to like this

 outcast?" he asked. "That is the way of Jarlaxle, is it not?"

    Jarlaxle laughed again. " 'Respect' would be a better

 word."

    "He would never join Bregan D'aerthe," the psionicist

 reminded.

    "Not knowingly," the opportunistic mercenary replied.

 "Not knowingly."

    Kimmuriel didn't press the point but rather motioned to

 the reflective pool excitedly. "Pray that Baeltimazifas lives

 up to his fees," he said.

    Jarlaxle, who had witnessed the catastrophe of many

 futile attempts against the likes of Drizzt Do'Urden,

 certainly was praying.

    Artemis Entreri entered the room then, as Jarlaxle had

 bade him. He took one look at the two dark elves, then moved

 cautiously to the side of the reflecting pool-and his eyes

 widened when he saw the image displayed within, the image of

 his greatest adversary.

    "Why are you so surprised?" Jarlaxle asked. "I told you I

 can deliver to you that which you most desire."

    Entreri worked hard to keep his breathing steady, not

 wanting the mercenary to draw too much enjoyment from his

 obvious excitement. He recognized the truth of it all now,

 that Jarlaxle-damned Jarlaxle!- had been right. There in the

 pool stood the source of Entreri's apathy, the symbol that

 his life had been a lie. There stood the one challenge yet

 facing the master assassin, the one remaining uneasiness that

 so prevented him from enjoying his present life.

    Right there, Drizzt Do'Urden. Entreri looked back at

 Jarlaxle and nodded.

    The mercenary, hardly surprised, merely smiled.

    Regis squirmed and groaned, resisting Catti-brie's

 attempts with the pendant this time, for as the emergency had

 dictated, she had not begun the charming process until after

 Drizzt's fingers were already working furiously inside the

 halfling's torn shoulder.

    Bruenor, his axe right beside him, did well to hold the

 halfling steady, but Drizzt kept growling and shaking his

 head in frustration. The wound had reopened, and badly, and

 this time the nimble-fingered drow could not possibly close

 it.

    "Take the damned arm!" Drizzt finally cried in ultimate

 frustration, falling back, his own arm soaked in blood. The

 four dwarves behind him gave a unified groan, but Bruenor,

 always steady and reliable, understood the truth and moved

 methodically for his axe.

    Catti-brie continued to talk to Regis, but he was no

 longer listening to her or to anything, his consciousness

 long flown.

    Bruenor leveled the axe, lining up the stroke. Catti-

 brie, having no logical arguments, understanding that they

 had to stem the bleeding even if that meant cut-ting off the

 arm and cauterizing the wound with fire, hesitantly extended

 the torn arm.

    "Take it," Drizzt instructed, and the four dwarves

 groaned again.

    Bruenor spat in his hands and took up the axe, but doubt

 crossed his face as he looked down at his poor little friend.

    "Take it!" Drizzt demanded.

    Bruenor lifted the axe and brought it down again slowly,

 lining up the hit.

    "Take it!" Catti-brie said.

    "Do not!" came a voice from the side, and all the friends

 turned to see two men walking toward them.

    "Cadderly!" Catti-brie cried, and so it seemed to be. So

 surprised and pleased was she, and was Drizzt, that neither

 noticed that the man seemed older than the last time they had

 seen him, though they knew the priest was not aging, but was

 rather growing more youthful as his health returned. The

 great effort of raising the magical Spirit Soaring library

 from the rubble had taken its toll on the young man.

    Cadderly nodded to his companion, who rushed over to

 Regis. "Good it is that beside you we arrived," the other

 priest said, a curious comment and in a dialect that none of

 the others had heard before.

    They didn't question him about it, though, not with their

 friend Cadderly standing beside him, and certainly not while

 he bent over and began a quiet chant over the prone halfling.

    "My associate, Arrabel, will see to the wound," Cadderly

 explained. "Truly I am surprised to see you out here so far

 from home."

    "Coming to see yerself," Bruenor explained.

    "Well, turn about," Baeltimazifas, in the guise of

 Cadderly, said dramatically, exactly as Jarlaxle had

 instructed. "I will welcome you indeed in a grand manner,

 when you arrive at the Spirit Soaring, but your road now is

 in the other direction, for you've a friend in dire need."

    "Wulfgar," Catti-brie breathed, and the others were

 surely thinking the same.

    Cadderly nodded. "He tried to follow your course, it

 would seem, and has come into a small hamlet east of Baldur's

 Gate. The downstream currents will take you there quickly."

    "What hamlet?" Bumpo asked.

    The doppleganger shrugged, having no name. "Four

 buildings behind a bluff and trees. I know not its name."

    "That'd be Yogerville," Donat insisted, and Bumpo nodded

 his agreement.

    "Get ye there in a day," the dwarf captain told Drizzt.

    The drow looked questioningly to Cadderly.

    "It would take me a day to pray for such a spell of

 transport," the phony priest explained. "And even then I

 could take but one of you along."

    Regis groaned then, drawing the attention of all, and to

 the companions' amazement and absolute joy the halfling sat

 up, looking much better already, and even managed to flex the

 fingers at the end of his torn arm.

    Beside him, Rai'gy, in the uncomfortable mantle of a

 human, smiled and silently thanked Lady Lolth for being so

 very understanding.

    "He can travel, and immediately," the doppleganger

 explained. "Now be off. Your friend is in dire need. It would

 seem that his temper has angered the farmers, and they have

 him prisoner and plan to hang him. You have time to save him,

 for they'll not act until their leader returns, but be off at

 once."

    Drizzt nodded, then reached down and took his pouch from

 Regis's belt. "Will you join us?" he asked, and even then,

 eager Catti-brie, Bruenor, Regis, and the dwarves began

 readying the boat for departure. Drizzt and Cadderly's

 associate moved out of the craft to join the priest.

    "No," the doppleganger replied, perfectly mimicking

 Cadderly's voice, according to the imp who had supplied the

 strange, creature with most of the details and insights.

 "You'll not need me, and I have other urgent matters to

 attend."

    Drizzt nodded and handed the pouch over. "Take care with

 it," he explained. "It has the ability to call in would-be

 allies."

    "I will be back in the Spirit Soaring in a matter of

 minutes," the doppleganger replied.

    Drizzt paused at that curious comment-hadn't Cadderly

 just proclaimed that he needed a day to memorize a spell of

 transport?

    "Word of recall," Rai'gy, picking up the uneasiness, put

 in quickly. "Get us home to the Spirit Soaring will the

 spell, but not to any other place."

    "Come on, elf!" Bruenor cried. "Me boy's waiting."

    "Go," Cadderly bade Drizzt, taking the pouch and in the

 same movement, putting his hand on Drizzt's shoulder and

 turning him back to the boat, pushing him gently along. "Go

 at once. You've not a moment to spare."

    Silent alarms continued to ring out in Drizzt's head, but

 he had no time then to stop and consider them. Bottom Feeder

 was already sliding back out into the river, the four crew

 working to turn her about. With a nimble leap Drizzt joined

 them, then turned back to see Cadderly waving and smiling,

 his associate already in the throes of spellcasting. Before

 the craft had gone very far the friends watched the pair

 dissipate into the wind.

    "Why didn't the durned fool just take one of us to me boy

 now?" Bruenor asked.

    "Why not, indeed?" Drizzt replied, staring back at the

 empty spot and wondering.

    Wondering.

    Bright and early the next morning, Bottom Feeder put in

 against the bank a couple hundred yards short of Yogerville

 and the four friends, including Regis, who was feeling much

 better, leaped ashore.

    They had all agreed that the dwarves would remain with

 the boat, and also, on the suggestion of Drizzt, had decided

 that Bruenor, Regis, and Catti-brie would go in to speak with

 the townsfolk alone while the ranger circumvented the hamlet,

 getting a full lay of the region.

    The three were greeted by friendly farm folk, by wide

 smiles, and then, when asked about Wulfgar, by expressions of

 confusion.

    "Ye thinking that we'd forget one of that description?"

 one old woman asked with a cackle.

    The three friends looked at each other with confusion.

    "Donat picked the wrong town," Bruenor said with a great

 sigh.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Drizzt harbored troubling thoughts. A magical spell had

 obviously brought Cadderly to him and his companions, but if

 Wulfgar was in such dire need, why hadn't the cleric just

 gone to him first instead? He could explain it, of course,

 considering that Regis was in more dire peril, but why hadn't

 Cadderly gone to one, while his associate went to the other?

 Again, logical explanations were there. Perhaps the priests

 had only one spell that could bring them to one place and had

 been forced to choose. Yet there was something else nagging

 at Drizzt, and he simply could not place it.

    But then he understood his inner turmoil. How had

 Cadderly even known to look for Wulfgar, a man he had never

 met and had only heard about briefly?

    "Just good fortune," he told himself, trying logically to

 trace Cadderly's process, one that had obviously brought him

 onto Drizzt's trail, and there he had discovered Wulfgar, not

 so far behind. Luck alone had informed the priest of whom

 this great man might be.

    Still, there seemed holes in that logic, but ones that

 Drizzt hoped might be filled in by Wulfgar when at last they

 managed to rescue him. With all that in mind Drizzt made his

 way around the back side of the hamlet, moving behind the

 blocking ridge south of the town, out of sight of his friends

 and their surprising exchange with the townsfolk, who

 honestly had no idea who Wulfgar might be.

    But Drizzt could have guessed as much anyway when he came

 around that ridgeline, to see a crystalline tower, an image

 of Crenshinibon, sparkling in the morning light.

    

                            Chapter 23

                        THE LAST CHALLENGE

  

    Drizzt stood transfixed as a line appeared on the

 unblemished side of the crystalline tower, widening,

 widening, until it became an open doorway.

    And inside the door, beckoning to Drizzt, stood a drow

 elf wearing a great plumed hat that Drizzt surely recognized.

 For some reason he could not immediately discern, Drizzt was

 not as surprised as he should have been.

    "Well met again, Drizzt Do'Urden," Jarlaxle said, using

 the common surface tongue. "Please do come in and speak with

 me."

    Drizzt put one hand to a scimitar hilt, the other to the

 pouch holding Guenhwyvar-though he had only recently sent the

 panther back to her astral home and knew she would be weary

 if recalled. He tensed his leg muscles and measured the

 distance to Jarlaxle, recognizing that he, with the enchanted

 ankle bracers he wore, could cover the ground in the blink of

 an eye, perhaps even get a solid strike in against the

 mercenary.

    But then he would be dead, he knew, for if Jarlaxle was

 here, then so was Bregan D'aerthe, all about him, weapons

 trained upon him.

    "Please," Jarlaxle said again. "We have business we must

 discuss to the benefit of us both and to our friends."

    That last reference, coupled with the fact that Drizzt

 had come back this way on the word of an impostor-who was

 obviously working for the mercenary leader or was, perhaps

 the mercenary leader-that Wulfgar was in some danger, made

 Drizzt relax his grip on his weapon.

    "I guarantee that neither I nor my associates shall

 strike against you," Jarlaxle assured him. "And furthermore

 the friends who accompanied you to this village will walk

 away unharmed as long as they take no action against me."

    Drizzt held a fair understanding of the mysterious

 mercenary, enough to trust Jarlaxle's word, at least.

 Jarlaxle had held all the cards in previous meetings, times

 when the mercenary could have easily killed Drizzt, and

 Catti-brie as well. And yet he had not, despite the fact that

 bringing the head of Drizzt Do'Urden back to Menzoberranzan

 at that time might have proven quite profitable. With a look

 back to the direction of the town, blocked from view by the

 high ridge, Drizzt moved to the door.

    Many memories came to Drizzt as he followed Jarlaxle into

 the structure, the magical door sliding closed behind them.

 Though this ground level was not as the ranger remembered it,

 he could not help but recall the first time he entered a

 manifestation of Crenshinibon, when he had gone after the

 wizard Akar Kessell back in Icewind Dale. It was not a

 pleasant memory to be sure, but a somewhat comforting one,

 for within those recollections came to Drizzt an

 understanding of how he could defeat this tower, of how he

 could sever its power and send it crumbling down.

    Looking back at Jarlaxle, though, as the mercenary

 settled comfortably into a lavish chair beside a huge upright

 mirror, Drizzt understood he wouldn't likely get any such

 chance.

    Jarlaxle motioned to a chair opposite him, and again

 Drizzt moved to comply. The mercenary was as dangerous as any

 creature Drizzt had ever know, but he was not reckless and

 not vicious.

    One thing Drizzt did notice, though, as he moved for the

 seat: his feet seemed just a bit heavier to him, as though

 the dweomer of his bracers had diminished.

    "I have followed your movements for many days," Jarlaxle

 explained. "A friend of mine requires your services, you

 see."

    "Services?" Drizzt asked suspiciously.

    Jarlaxle only smiled and continued. "It became important

 for me to bring the two of you together again."

    "And important for you to steal the crystal shard,"

 Drizzt reasoned.

    "Not so," the mercenary honestly answered. "Not so.

 Crenshinibon was not known to me when this began. Acquiring

 it was merely a pleasant extra in seeking that which I most

 needed: you."

    "What of Cadderly?" Drizzt asked with some concern. He

 still was not certain whether it really had been Cadderly who

 had come to Regis's aid. Had Jarlaxle subsequently garnered

 Crenshinibon from the priest? Or had the entire episode with

 Cadderly been merely a clever ruse?

    "Cadderly remains quite comfortable in the Spirit

 Soaring, oblivious to your quest," Jarlaxle explained. "Much

 to the dismay of my wizard friend's new familiar, who holds a

 particular hatred for Cadderly."

    "Promise me that Cadderly is safe," Drizzt said in all

 seriousness.

    Jarlaxle nodded. "Indeed, and you are quite welcome for

 our actions to save your halfling friend."

    That caught Drizzt off guard, but he had to admit that it

 was true enough. Had not Jarlaxle's cronies come in the guise

 of Cadderly and enacted great healing upon Regis, the

 halfling likely would have died, or at the very least would

 have lost an arm.

    "Of course, for the minor price of a spellcasting you

 gained much of our confidence," Drizzt did remark, reminding

 Jarlaxle that he understood the mercenary rarely did anything

 that did not bring some benefit to him.

    "Not so minor a spellcasting," Jarlaxle bantered. "And we

 could have faked it all, providing only the illusion of

 healing, a spell that would have temporarily healed the

 halfling's wounds, only to have them reopen later on to his

 ultimate demise.

    "But I assure you that we did not," he quickly added,

 seeing Drizzt's eyes narrow dangerously. "No, your friend is

 nearly fully healed."

    "Then I do thank you," Drizzt replied. "Of course, you

 understand that I must take Crenshinibon back from you?"

    "I do not doubt that you are brave enough to try,"

 Jarlaxle admitted. "But I do understand that you are not

 stupid enough to try."

    "Not now, perhaps."

    "Then why ever?" the mercenary asked. "What care is it to

 Drizzt Do'Urden if Crenshinibon works its wicked magic upon

 the dark elves of Menzoberranzan?"

    Again, the mercenary had put Drizzt somewhat off his

 guard. What care, indeed? "But does Jarlaxle remain in

 Menzoberranzan?" he asked. "It would seem not."

    That brought a laugh from the mercenary. "Jarlaxle goes

 where Jarlaxle needs to go," he answered. "But think long and

 hard on your choice before coming for the crystal shard,

 Drizzt Do'Urden. Are there truly any hands in all the world

 better suited to wield the artifact than mine?"

    Drizzt did not reply but was indeed considering the words

 carefully.

    "Enough of that," Jarlaxle said, coming forward in his

 chair, suddenly more intent. "I have brought you here that

 you might meet an old acquaintance, one you have battled

 beside and battled against. It seems as if he has some

 unfinished business with Drizzt Do'Urden, and that

 uncertainty is costing me precious time with him."

    Drizzt stared hard at the mercenary, having no idea what

 Jarlaxle might be talking about-for just a moment. Then he

 remembered the last time he had seen the mercenary, right

 before Drizzt and Artemis Entreri had parted ways. His

 expression showed his disappointment clearly as he came to

 suspect the truth of it all.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Ye picked the wrong durned town," Bruenor said to Bumpo

 and Donat when he and the other two returned to Bottom

 Feeder,

    The two dwarven brothers looked curiously at each other,

 Donat scratching his head.

    "Had to be this one," Bumpo insisted. "By yer friend's

 description, I mean."

    "The townsfolk might have been lying to us," Regis put

 in.

    "They're good at it, then," said Catti-brie. "Every one

 o' them."

    "Well, I know a way to find out for certain," the

 halfling said, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. When Bruenor

 and Catti-brie, recognizing that tone in his voice, turned to

 regard him, they found him dangling his hypnotic ruby

 pendant.

    "Back we go," Bruenor said, starting away from the boat

 once more. He paused and looked back at the four dwarves.

 "Ye're sure, are ye?" he asked.

    All four heads began wagging enthusiastically.

    Just before the threesome arrived back among the cluster

 of houses, a small boy ran out to meet them. "Did you find

 your friend?" he asked.

    "Why no, we haven't," Catti-brie replied, holding back

 both Bruenor and Regis with a wave of her hand. "Have ye seen

 him?"

    "He might be in the tower," the youngster offered.

    "What tower?" Bruenor asked gruffly before Catti-brie

 could reply.

    "Over there," the young boy answered, unruffled by the

 dwarf's stern tone. "Out back." He pointed to the ridge that

 rose up behind the small village, and as the friends followed

 that line they noted several villagers ascending the ridge.

 About halfway up the villagers began gasping in astonishment,

 some pointing, others falling to the ground, and still others

 running back the way they had come.

    The three friends began running, too, to the ridge and

 up. Then they too skidded to abrupt stops, staring

 incredulously at the tower image of Crenshinibon.

    "Cadderly?" Regis asked incredulously.

    "I'm not thinkin' so," said Catti-brie. Crouching low,

 she led them on cautiously.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Artemis Entreri wishes this contest between you two at

 last resolved," Jarlaxle confirmed.

    Drizzt's uncharacteristic outburst made it quite obvious

 to Jarlaxle just how much he despised Entreri and just how

 sincere he was in his claim to never want to go against the

 man again.

    "Never do you disappoint me," Jarlaxle said with a

 chuckle. "Your lack of hubris is commendable, my friend. I

 applaud you for it and do wish, in all sincerity, that I

 could grant you your desire and send you and your friends on

 your way. But that I cannot do, I fear, and I assure you that

 you must settle your relationship with Entreri. For your

 friends, if not for yourself."

    Drizzt chewed on that threat for a long moment. While he

 did, Jarlaxle waved his hand in front of the mirror beside

 his chair, which clouded over immediately. As Drizzt watched

 the fog swirled away, leaving a clear image of Catti-brie,

 Bruenor, and Regis making their way up to the base of the

 tower. Catti-brie was in the lead, moving in a staggered

 manner, trying to utilize the little cover available.

    "I could kill them with a thought," the mercenary assured

 Drizzt.

    "But why would you?" Drizzt asked. "You gave me your

 word."

    "And so I shall keep it," Jarlaxle replied. "As long as

 you cooperate."

    Drizzt paused, digesting the information. "What of

 Wulfgar?" he asked suddenly, thinking that Jarlaxle must have

 some information regarding the man since he'd used Wulfgar's

 name to lure Drizzt and his friends to this place.

    Now it was Jarlaxle's turn to pause and think, but just

 for a moment. "He is alive and well from what I can discern,"

 the mercenary admitted. "I have not spoken with him, but

 looked in on him long enough to find out how his present

 situation might benefit me."

    "Where?" Drizzt asked.

    Jarlaxle smiled widely. "There will be time for such talk

 later," he said, looking back over his shoulder to the one

 staircase ascending from the room.

    "You will find that your magics will not work in here,"

 the mercenary went on, and Drizzt understood then why his

 feet seemed heavier. "None of them, not your scimitars, the

 bracers you took from Dantrag Baenre when you killed him, nor

 even your innate drow powers."

    "Yet a new and wondrous aspect of the crystal shard,"

 Drizzt remarked sarcastically.

    "No," Jarlaxle admitted, smiling. "More the help of a

 friend. It was necessary to defeat all magic, you see,

 because this last meeting between you and Artemis Entreri

 must be on perfectly equal footing, with no possible unfair

 advantages to be gained by either party."

    "Yet your mirror worked," Drizzt reasoned, as much trying

 to buy himself some time as out of any curiosity. "Is that

 not magic?"

    "It is yet another piece of the tower, nothing I brought

 in, and all the tower is impervious to my associate's

 attempts to defeat the magic," Jarlaxle explained. "What a

 marvelous gift you gave to me-or to my associate-in handing

 over Crenshinibon. It has told me so much about itself... how

 to raise the towers and how to manipulate them to fit my

 needs"

    "You know that I cannot allow you to keep it," Drizzt

 said again.

    "And you know well that I would never have invited you

 here if I thought there was anything at all you could do to

 take Crenshinibon away from me," Jarlaxle said with a laugh.

 He ended the sentence by looking again at the mirror to his

 side.

    Drizzt followed that gaze to the mirror, to see his

 friends moving about the base of the tower then, searching

 for a door-a door that Drizzt knew they would not find unless

 Jarlaxle willed it to be so. Catti-brie did find something of

 interest, though: Drizzt's tracks.

    "He's in there!" she cried.

    "Please be Cadderly," both dark elves heard Regis remark

 nervously. That brought a chuckle from Jarlaxle.

    "Go to Entreri," the mercenary said more seriously,

 waving his hand so that the mirror clouded over again, the

 image dissipating. "Go and satisfy his curiosity, and then

 you and your friends will go your way, and I will go mine."

    Drizzt spent a long while staring at the mercenary.

 Jarlaxle didn't press him for many moments, just locked

 stares with him. In that moment they came to a silent

 understanding.

    "Whatever the outcome?" Drizzt asked again, just to be

 sure.

    "Your friends walk away unharmed," Jarlaxle assured him.

 "With you, or with your body."

    Drizzt turned his gaze back to the staircase. He could

 hardly believe that Artemis Entreri, his nemesis for so long,

 awaited him just up those steps. His words to Jarlaxle had

 been sincere and heartfelt; he never wanted to see the man

 again, let alone fight with him. That was Entreri's emotional

 pain, not Drizzt's. Even now, with the fight so close and

 obviously so necessary, the drow ranger did not look forward

 to his climb up those stairs. It wasn't that he was afraid of

 the assassin. Not at all. While Drizzt respected Entreri's

 fighting prowess, he didn't fear the challenge.

    He rose from his chair and started for the stairs,

 silently recounting all the good he might accomplish in this

 fight. In addition to satisfying Jarlaxle, Drizzt might well

 be ridding the world of a scourge.

    Drizzt stopped and turned about. "This counts as one of

 my friends," he said, producing the onyx figurine from his

 pouch.

    "Ah, yes, Guenhwyvar," Jarlaxle said, his face

 brightening.

    "I will not see Guenhwyvar in Entreri's hands," Drizzt

 said. "Nor in yours. Whatever the outcome, she is to be

 returned to me or to Catti-brie."

    "A pity," Jarlaxle remarked with a laugh. "I had thought

 you might forget to include the magnificent panther in your

 conditions. How much I would love a companion such as

 Guenhwyvar."

    Drizzt stood up straighter, lavender eyes narrowing.

    "You would never trust me with such a treasure," Jarlaxle

 said. "Nor could I blame you. I do indeed have a weakness for

 things magical!" The mercenary was laughing, but Drizzt was

 not.

    "Give it to them yourself," Jarlaxle offered, motioning

 for the door. "Just toss the figurine at the wall, above

 where you entered. Watch the results for yourself," he added,

 motioning to the mirror, which cleared again of fog and

 produced an image of Drizzt's friends.

    The ranger looked back to the door to see a small opening

 appear right above it. He rushed over. "Be gone from this

 place!" he cried, hoping his friends would hear, and tossed

 the onyx figurine through the portal. Thinking suddenly that

 the whole episode might be just one of Jarlaxle's tricks, he

 swung about and scrambled to watch in the mirror.

    To his relief he saw the trio, Catti-brie calling for him

 and Regis picking up the panther from the ground. The

 halfling wasted no time in setting the thing down and calling

 to Guenhwyvar, and the cat soon appeared beside Drizzt's

 friends, growling out to the trapped drow even as the other

 three called for him.

    "You know they'll not leave," Jarlaxle said dryly. "But

 go on and be done with this. You have my word that your

 friends, all four, will not be harmed."

    Drizzt hesitated just one more time, glancing back at the

 mercenary who still sat comfortably in his chair as though

 Drizzt presented no threat to him whatsoever. For a moment

 Drizzt considered calling that bluff, drawing his weapons

 enchanted or not, and rushing over to cut the mercenary down.

 But he could not, of course, not when the safety of his

 friends hung in the balance.

    Jarlaxle, so smug in his chair, knew that implicitly.

    Drizzt took a deep breath, trying to throw away all the

 confusion of this last day, the craziness that had handed the

 mighty artifact over to Jarlaxle and brought Drizzt to this

 place, to fight Artemis Entreri, no less.

    He took a second deep breath, stretched out his fingers

 and arms, and started up the stairs.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Artemis Entreri paced the room nervously, studying the

 many contours, staircases, and elevated planks. No simple

 circular, empty chamber for Jarlaxle. The mercenary had

 constructed this, the second floor of the tower, with many

 ups and downs, places where strategy could play in to the

 upcoming fight. At the center of the room was a staircase of

 four steps, rising to a landing large enough for only one

 man. The back side mirrored the front, another four steps

 back down to the floor level. More steps completely bordered

 the room, five up to the wall, where another landing ran all

 the way around. From these, on Entreri's left, went a plank,

 perhaps a foot wide, connecting the fourth step to the top

 landing of the center case.

    Yet another obstacle, a two-sided ramp, loomed near the

 back wall beside where Entreri paced. Two others, low,

 circular platforms, were set about the room by the door

 across the way, the door through which Drizzt Do'Urden would

 enter.

    But how to make all of these props work for him? Entreri

 pondered, and he realized that his thoughts mattered little,

 for Drizzt was too unpredictable a foe, was too quick and

 quick thinking for Entreri to lay out a plan of attack. No,

 he would have to improvise every step and roll of the way, to

 counter and anticipate, and fight in measured thrusts.

    He drew out his weapons then, dagger and sword. At first

 he had considered coming in with two swords to offset

 Drizzt's twin scimitars. In the end he decided to go with the

 style he knew best, and with the weapon, though its magic

 would not work in here, that he loved best.

    Back and forth he paced, stretching his muscles, arms,

 and neck. He talked quietly to himself, reminding himself of

 all that he had to do, warning himself to never, not for a

 single instant, underestimate his enemy. And then he stopped

 suddenly, and considered his own movements, his own thoughts.

    He was indeed nervous, anxious and, for the first time

 since he had left Menzoberranzan, excited. A slight sound

 turned him around.

    Drizzt Do'Urden stood on the landing.

    Without a word the drow ranger entered, then flinched not

 at all as the door slid closed behind him.

    "I have waited for this for many years," Entreri said.

    "Then you are a bigger fool than I supposed," Drizzt

 replied.

    Entreri exploded into motion, rushing up the back side of

 the center stairs, brandishing dagger and sword as he came

 over the lip, as if he expected Drizzt to meet him there,

 battling for the high ground.

    The ranger hadn't moved, hadn't even drawn his weapons.

    "And a bigger fool still if you believe that I will fight

 you this day," Drizzt said.

    Entreri's eyes widened. After a long pause he came down

 the front stairs slowly, sword leading, dagger ready, moving

 to within a couple of steps of Drizzt. Who still did not draw

 his weapons. "Ready your scimitars," Entreri instructed.

 "Why? That we might play as entertainment for Jarlaxle and

 his band?" Drizzt replied.

    "Draw them!" Entreri growled. "Else I'll run you

 through."

    "Will you?" Drizzt calmly asked, and he slowly drew out

 his blades. As Entreri came on another measured step, the

 ranger dropped those scimitars to the ground. Entreri's jaw

 dropped nearly as far. "Have you learned nothing in all the

 years?" Drizzt asked. "How many times must we play this out?

 Must all of our lives be dedicated to revenge upon whichever

 of us won the last battle?"

    "Pick them up!" Entreri shouted, rushing in so that his

 sword tip came in at Drizzt's breastbone.

    "And then we shall fight," Drizzt said nonchalantly. "And

 one of us will win, but perhaps the other will survive. And

 then, of course, we will have to do this all over again,

 because you believe that you have something to prove."

    "Pick them up," Entreri said through gritted teeth,

 prodding his sword just a bit. Had that blade still been

 carrying the weight of its magic, the prod surely would have

 slid it through Drizzt's ribs. "This is the last challenge,

 for one of us will die this day. Here it is, laid out for us

 by Jarlaxle, as fair a fight as we might ever find." Drizzt

 didn't move.

    "I will run you through," Entreri promised. Drizzt only

 smiled. "I think not, Artemis Entreri. I know you better than

 you believe, and surely better than you are comfortable with.

 You would take no pleasure in killing me in such a manner and

 would hate yourself for the rest of your life for doing so,

 for stealing from yourself the only chance you might ever

 have to know the truth. Because that is what this is about,

 is it not? The truth, your truth, the moment when you hope to

 either validate your miserable existence or put an end to

 it."

    Entreri growled loudly and came forward, but he did not,

 could not, press his arm forward and impale the drow. "Damn

 you!" he cried, spinning away, growling and slashing, back

 around the stairs, cursing with every step. "Damn you!"

    Behind him Drizzt nodded, bent, and retrieved his

 scimitars. "Entreri," he called, and the change in his tone

 told the assassin that something was suddenly very different.

    Entreri, on the other side of the room now, turned about

 to see Drizzt standing ready, blades in hand, to see the

 vision he so desperately craved.

    "You passed my test," Drizzt explained. "Now I'll take

 yours."

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "Are we to watch or just wait to see who shall walk out

 victorious?" Rai'gy asked as he and Kimmuriel walked out from

 a small chamber off to the side of the first floor's main

 room.

    "This show will be worth the watching," Jarlaxle assured

 the pair. He motioned to the stairs. "We will ascend to the

 landing, and I will make the door translucent."

    "An amazing artifact," Kimmuriel said, shaking his head.

 In only a day of communing with the crystal shard Jarlaxle

 had learned so very much. He had learned how to shape and

 design the tower reflection of the shard, to make doors

 appear and seemingly vanish, to create walls, transparent or

 opaque, and to use the tower as one great scrying device, as

 he was now. Both Kimmuriel and Rai'gy noted this as they came

 around to see the image of Catti-brie, Regis, Bruenor, and

 the great cat showing in the mirror.

    "We shall watch, and they should as well," Jarlaxle said.

 He closed his eyes, and all three drow heard a scraping sound

 along the outside of Crenshinibon. "There," Jarlaxle

 announced a moment later. "Now we may go."

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Catti-brie, Bruenor, and Regis stood dumbfounded as the

 crystalline tower seemed to snake to life, one edge rolling

 out wide, releasing a hidden fold. Then, amazingly, a

 stairway appeared, circling down along the tower from a

 height of about twenty feet.

    The three hesitated, looking to each other for answers,

 but Guenhwyvar waited not at all, bounding up the stairs,

 roaring with every mighty leap.

    They stared at each other for some time, looks of respect

 more than hatred, for they had come past hatred, these two,

 losing a good deal of their enmity by the sheer exertions of

 their running battle.

    So now they stared from opposite sides of the thirty-foot

 diameter room, across the central stairs, each waiting for

 the other to make the first move, or rather, for the other to

 show that he was about to move.

    They broke as one, both charging for the center stairs,

 both seeking the higher ground. Even without the aid of the

 magical bracers Drizzt gained a step advantage, perhaps

 because though he was twice the assassin's actual age, he was

 much younger in terms of a drow lifetime than Entreri was for

 a human.

    Always the improviser, Entreri took one step on the

 staircase, then dived to the side, headlong in a roll that

 brought him harmlessly past Drizzt's swishing blades. He went

 right under the raised plank, using it as a barrier against

 the scimitars.

    Drizzt turned completely around, falling into a ready

 crouch at the top of the stairs and preventing Entreri from

 coming back in.

    But Entreri knew that the ranger would protect his high-

 ground position, and so the assassin never slowed, coming out

 of his roll back to his feet and running to the side of the

 room, up the five steps, then moving along that higher ground

 to the end of the raised plank. When Drizzt did not pursue,

 neither by following Entreri's course nor rushing across the

 plank, Entreri hopped down to that narrow walkway and moved

 halfway along it toward the center stair.

    Drizzt held his ground on the wider platform of the

 staircase apex.

    "Come along," Entreri bade him, indicating the walkway.

 "Even footing."

  

                      * * * * *

  

    They feared climbing that stair, for how vulnerable they

 would all be perched on the side of Crenshinibon, but when

 Guenhwyvar, at the landing and looking into the tower, roared

 louder and began clawing at the wall they could not resist.

 Again Catti-brie arrived first to find a translucent wall at

 the top of the stairs, a window into the room where Drizzt

 and Entreri faced off.

    She banged on the unyielding glass. So did Bruenor when

 he arrived, with the back of his axe, but to no avail, for

 they could not even scratch the thing. If Drizzt and Entreri

 heard them, or even saw them, neither showed it.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    "You should have made the room smaller," Rai'gy remarked

 dryly when he, Jarlaxle, and Kimmuriel arrived at their

 landing, similarly watching the action-or lack thereof-

 within.

    "Ah, but the play's the thing," Jarlaxle replied. He

 pointed across the way then, to Catti-brie and the others.

 "We can see the combatants and Drizzt's friends across the

 way, and those friends can see us," he explained, and even as

 he did so the three drow saw Catti-brie pointing their way,

 screaming something that they could not hear but could well

 imagine. "But Drizzt and Entreri can see only each other."

    "Quite a tower," Rai'gy had to admit.

    Drizzt wanted to hold the secure position, but Entreri

 showed patience now, and the ranger knew that if he did not

 go out, this fight that he desperately wanted to be done with

 could take a long, long time. He hopped onto the narrow

 walkway easily and came out toward Entreri slowly, inch by

 inch, setting each foot firmly before taking the next small

 step.

    He snapped into sudden motion as he neared, a quick-step

 thrust of his right blade. Entreri's dagger, his left-hand

 weapon, wove inside the thrust perfectly and pushed the

 scimitar out wide. In the same fluid movement the assassin

 turned his shoulder and moved ahead, sword tip leading.

    Drizzt's second scimitar was halfway into the parry

 before the thrust ever began, turning a complete circle in

 the air, then ascending inside the angle of the thrust on the

 second pass, deflecting the rushing sword, rolling right over

 it and around as his first blade did the same with the

 dagger. Into the dance fully he went, his curving blades

 accentuating the spinning circular motions, cutting over and

 around, reversing the direction of one, then both, then one

 again. Spinning, seeking opening, thrusting ahead, slashing

 down.

    And Entreri matched every movement, his actions in

 straighter lines, straight to the side or above or straight

 ahead, picking off the blades, forcing Drizzt to parry. The

 metal screamed continuously, hit after hit after hit.

    But then Drizzt's left hand came in cleanly and cleanly

 swished through the air, for the assassin did not try to

 parry but dived into a forward roll instead, his sword

 knocking one scimitar at bay, his movement causing the other

 to miss, and his dagger, leading the ascent out of the roll,

 aimed for Drizzt's heart with no chance for the ranger to

 bring his remaining scimitar in to block.

    So up went Drizzt, up and out, a great leap to the left

 side, tucking and turning to avoid the strike, landing on the

 floor in a roll that brought him back to his feet. He took

 two running steps away as he spun about, knowing that

 Entreri, slight advantage gained, would surely pursue. He

 came around just in time to meet a furious attack from dagger

 and sword.

    Again the metal rang out repeatedly in protest, and

 Drizzt was forced back by the sheer momentum of Entreri's

 charge. He accepted that retreat, though, quick-stepping all

 the way to maintain perfect balance, his hands working in a

 blur.

    At the interior landing the three drow, who had lived all

 their lives around expert swordsmen and had witnessed many,

 many battles, watched every subtle movement with mounting

 amazement.

    "Did you arrange this for Entreri's benefit or ours?"

 Rai'gy remarked, his tone surely different, surely without

 hint of sarcasm.

    "Both," Jarlaxle admitted. As he spoke, Drizzt darted

 past Entreri up the center stairs and did not stop, but

 rather leaped off, turning in midair as he went, then landing

 in a rush back to the side toward the plank. Entreri took a

 shorter route instead of a direct pursuit, leaping up to the

 plank ahead of Drizzt, stealing the advantage the dark elf

 had hoped to achieve.

    As much the improviser as his opponent, Drizzt dived down

 low, skittering under the plank even as Entreri got his

 footing, and slashing back up and over his head, an amazingly

 agile move that would have hamstrung the assassin had Entreri

 not anticipated just that and continued on his way, leaping

 off the plank back to the floor and turning around.

    Still, Drizzt had scored a hit, tearing the back of

 Entreri's trousers and a line across the back of his calf.

    "First blood to Drizzt," Kimmuriel observed. He looked to

 Jarlaxle, who was smiling and looking across the way.

 Following the mercenary's gaze Rai'gy saw that Drizzt's

 friends, including even the panther, were similarly

 entranced, watching the battle with open-mouthed admiration.

    And so it was well-earned, Kimmuriel silently agreed,

 turning his full attention back to the dance, brutal and

 beautiful all at once.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Now they came in at floor level, rushing together in a

 blur of swords and flying capes, their routines neither

 attack nor defense, but somewhere in between. Blade scraped

 along blade, throwing sparks, the metal shrieking in protest.

    Drizzt's left blade swished across at neck level. Entreri

 dropped suddenly below it into a squat from which he seemed

 to gain momentum, coming back up with a double thrust of

 sword and dagger. But Drizzt didn't stop his turn with the

 miss. The dark elf went right around, a complete circuit,

 coming back with a right-handed, backhand down-and-over

 parry. The inside hook of his curving blade caught both the

 assassin's blades and turned them aside. Then Drizzt altered

 the angle of his left before it swished overhead, the blade

 screaming down for Entreri's head.

    But the assassin, his hands even closer together because

 of Drizzt's block, switched blades easily, then extracted the

 dagger by bringing his right arm in suddenly, pumping it back

 out, dagger tip rising as scimitar descended.

    Then they both howled in pain, Drizzt leaping back with a

 deep puncture in his wrist, Entreri falling back with a gash

 along the length of his forearm.

    But only for a second, only for the time it took each to

 realize that he could continue, that he would not

    drop a weapon. Both Drizzt's scimitars started out wide,

 closing like the jaws of a wolf as he and Entreri came

 together. The assassin, though his blades had the inside

 track, found himself a split second behind and had to double

 block, throwing his own blades, and the scimitars they

 caught, out wide and coming forward with the momentum. He

 hesitated just an instant to see if he could possibly bring

 one of his blades back in.

    Drizzt hadn't hesitated at all, though, dipping his

 forehead just ahead of Entreri's similar movement, so that

 when they came smacking together, head to head, Entreri got

 the brunt of it.

    But the assassin, dazed, punched out straight with his

 right hand, knuckles and dagger crosspiece slamming into

 Drizzt's face.

    They fell apart again, one of Entreri's eyes fast

 swelling, Drizzt's cheek and nose bleeding.

    The assassin pressed the attack fiercely then, before his

 eye closed and gave Drizzt a huge advantage. He went in hard,

 stabbing his sword down low.

    Drizzt's scimitar crossed down over it, and he pivoted

 perfectly, launching a kick that got Entreri in the face.

    The kick hardly slowed him, for the assassin had

 anticipated that exact move indeed, he had counted on it. He

 ducked as the foot came in, a grazing blow, but one that

 nonetheless stung his already injured eye. Skittering forward

 he launched his dagger in a roundabout manner, the edge

 coming in at the back of Drizzt's knee.

    Drizzt could have struck with his second blade, hoping to

 get it past the already engaged sword, but if he tried and

 Entreri somehow managed to parry, he knew that the fight

 would be all but over, that the dagger would tear the back

 out of his leg.

    He knew all of that, instinctively, without thinking at

 all, so instead he just kicked his one supporting leg

 forward, falling backward over the dagger. Drizzt was scraped

 but not skewered. He meant to go all the way around in the

 roll and come right back up to his feet, but before he even

 really started he saw that the growling Entreri was fast

 pursuing and would catch him defenseless halfway around.

    So he stopped and set himself on his back as the assassin

 came in.

    On both sides of the room, dark elves and Drizzt's

 friends alike gasped, thinking the contest at its end. But

 Drizzt fought on, scimitars whirling, smacking, and stabbing

 to somehow, impossibly, hold Entreri at bay. And then the

 ranger managed to tuck one foot under him and come up in a

 wild rush, fighting ferociously, hitting each of Entreri's

 blades and hitting them hard, driving, driving to gain an

 equal footing.

    Now they were in it, face to face, blades working too

 quickly for the onlookers to even discern individual moves,

 but rather to watch the general flow of the battle. A gash

 appeared here on one combatant, a gash appeared there on the

 other, but neither warrior found the opportunity to bring any

 cut to completion. They were superficial nicks, torn clothes

 and skin. It went on and on, up one side of the staircase and

 down the other, and any misgivings that Drizzt might have had

 about this fight had long flown, and any doubts Entreri had

 ever had about desiring to battle Drizzt Do'Urden again had

 been fully erased. They fought with passion and fury, their

 blades striking so rapidly that the ring came as constant.

    They were out on the plank then, but they didn't know it.

 They came down together, each knocking the other from his

 perch, on opposite sides, then went under the plank together,

 battling in a crouch. They moved past each other, coming up

 on either side, then leaping back atop the narrow walkway in

 perfect balance to begin anew.

    On and on it went, and the seconds became minutes, and

 sweat mixed with blood and stung open wounds. One of Drizzt's

 sleeves got sliced so badly that it interfered with his

 movements, and he had to launch an explosive flurry to drive

 Entreri back long enough so he could flip his blade in the

 air and pull the remnants of the sleeve from his arm, then

 catch his blade as it descended, just in time to react to the

 assassin's charge. A moment later Entreri lost his cape as

 Drizzt's scimitar came in for his throat, cutting the

 garment's drawstring and tearing a gash under Entreri's chin

 as it rose.

    Both labored for breath; neither would back off.

    But for all the nicks and blood, for all the sweat and

 bruises, one injury alone stood out, for Entreri's vision on

 his right side was indeed blurring. The assassin switched

 weapon hands, dagger back in left and the longer, better

 blocking sword back in his right.

    Drizzt understood. He launched a feint, a right, left,

 right combination that Entreri easily picked off, but the

 attacks had not been designed to score any definitive hit

 anyway, just to allow Drizzt to put his feet in line.

    To the side of the room cunning Jarlaxle saw it and

 understood that the fight was about to end.

    Now Drizzt came in again with a left, but he stepped into

 the blow and launched his scimitar from far out to the side,

 from a place where Entreri's closed eye could hardly make out

 the movement. The assassin did instinctively parry with the

 sword and counter with the dagger, but Drizzt rolled his

 scimitar right over the intended parry, then snapped it back

 out, slashing Entreri's wrist and launching the sword away.

 At the same time, the ranger dropped his blade from his right

 hand and caught Entreri's stabbing dagger arm at the wrist.

 Stepping in and rolling his wrist and turning his weapon

 hand, Drizzt twisted Entreri's dagger arm back under itself,

 holding it out wide while before the assassin's free hand

 could hold Drizzt's arm back the dark elf's scimitar tip came

 in at Entreri's throat.

    All movement stopped suddenly. The assassin, with one arm

 twisted out wide and the other behind Drizzt's scimitar arm,

 was helpless to stop the ranger's momentum if Drizzt decided

 to plunge the blade through Entreri's throat.

    Growling and trembling, as close to the very edge of

 control as he had ever been, Drizzt held the blade back. "So

 what have we proven?" he demanded, voice full of venom, his

 lavender orbs locked in a wicked stare with Entreri's dark

 eyes. "Because my head connected in a favorable place with

 yours, limiting your vision, I am the better fighter?"

    "Finish it!" Entreri snarled back.

    Drizzt growled again and twisted Entreri's dagger arm

 more, bending the assassin's wrist so that the dagger fell to

 the floor. "For all those you have killed, and all those you

 surely will, I should kill you," Drizzt said, but he knew

 even as he said the words, and Entreri did, too, that he

 could not press home his blade, not now. In that awful moment

 Drizzt lamented not going through with the move in the first

 instant, before he had found the time to consider his

 actions.

    But now he could not, so with a sudden explosion of

 motion he let go of Entreri's arm and drove his open palm

 hard into the assassin's face, disengaging them and knocking

 Entreri staggering backward.

    "Damn you, Jarlaxle, have you had your pleasure?" Drizzt

 cried, turning about to see the mercenary and his companions,

 for Jarlaxle had opened the door.

    Drizzt came forward determinedly, as if he meant to run

 right over Jarlaxle, but a noise behind him stopped him, for

 Entreri came on, yelling.

    Yelling. The significance of that was lost on Drizzt in

 that moment as he spun about, right to left, his free right

 arm brushing out and across, lifting Entreri's leading arm,

 which held again that awful dagger. And around came Drizzt's

 left arm, scimitar leading, in a stab as Entreri crashed in,

 a stab that should have plunged the weapon into the

 assassin's chest to its hilt.

    The two came together and Drizzt's eyes widened indeed,

 for somehow, somehow, Entreri's very skin had repelled the

 blow.

    But Artemis Entreri, his body tingling with the energy of

 the absorbed hit, with the psionics Kimmuriel had suddenly

 given back to him, surely understood, and in a purely

 reactive move, without any conscious thought-for if the

 tormented man had considered it he would have loosed the

 energy back into himself-Entreri reached out and clasped

 Drizzt's chest and gave him back his blow with equal force.

    His hand sank into Drizzt's chest even as Drizzt, blood

 bubbling from the wound, fell to the ground.

    Out on the landing time seemed to freeze, stuck fast in

 that awful, awful moment. Guenhwyvar roared and leaped into

 the translucent wall, but merely bounced away. Outraged,

 roaring wildly, the cat went back at the wall, claws

 screeching against the unyielding pane.

    Bruenor, too, went into a fighting frenzy, hacking

 futilely with his axe while Regis stood dumbfounded, saying,

 "No, it cannot be," over and over.

    And there stood Catti-brie, wavering back and forth, her

 jaw drooping open, her eyes locked on that horrible sight.

 She suffered through every agonizing second as Entreri's

 empowered hand melted into Drizzt's chest, as the lifeblood

 of her dearest friend, of the ranger she had come to love so

 dearly, spurted from him. She watched the strength leave his

 legs, the buckling knees, and the sinking, sinking as Entreri

 guided him to the floor, and the sinking, sinking, of her own

 heart, an emptiness she had felt before, when she had seen

 Wulfgar fall with the yochlol.

    And even worse it seemed for her this time.

    "What have I done?" the assassin wailed, falling to his

 knees beside the drow. He turned an evil glare over Jarlaxle.

 "What have you done?"

    "I gave you your fight and showed you the truth,"

 Jarlaxle calmly replied. "Of yourself and your skills. But I

 am not finished with you. I came to you for my own purposes,

 not your own. Having done this for you, I demand that you

 perform for me."

    "No! No!" the assassin cried, reaching down furiously to

 try to stem the spurting blood. "Not like this!"

    Jarlaxle looked to Kimmuriel and nodded. The psionicist

 gripped Entreri with a mental hold, a telekinetic force that

 lifted Entreri from Drizzt and dragged him behind Kimmuriel

 as the psionicist headed out of the room, back down the

 stairs.

    Entreri thrashed and cursed, aiming his outrage at

 Jarlaxle but eyeing Drizzt, who lay very still on the floor.

 Indeed he had been granted his fight and, indeed, as he

 should have foreseen, it had proven nothing. He had lost-or

 would have, had not Kimmuriel intervened-yet he was the one

 who had lived.

    Why, then, was he so angry? Why did he want at that

 moment, to put his dagger across Jarlaxle's slender throat?

    Kimmuriel hauled him away.

    "He fought beautifully," Rai'gy remarked to Jarlaxle,

 indicating Drizzt, the blood flowing much lighter now, a pool

 of it all about his prone and very still form. "I understand

 now why Dantrag Baenre is dead."

    Jarlaxle nodded and smiled. "I have never seen Drizzt

 Do'Urden's equal," he admitted, "unless it is Artemis

 Entreri. Do you understand now why I chose that one."

    "He is drow in everything but skin color," Rai'gy said

 with a laugh.

    An explosion rocked the tower.

    "Catti-brie and her marvelous bow," Jarlaxle explained,

 looking to the landing where only Guenhwyvar remained,

 roaring and clawing futilely at the unyielding glass. "They

 saw, of course, every bit of it. I should go and speak with

 them before they bring the place down around us."

    With a thought to the crystal shard, Jarlaxle turned that

 wall in front of Guenhwyvar opaque once more.

    Then he nodded to the still form of Drizzt Do'Urden and

 walked out of the room.

    

    EPILOGUE

    He is sulking," Kimmuriel remarked, joining Jaraxle

 sometime later in the main chamber of the lower floor. "But

 at least he has stopped swearing to cut off your head."

    Jarlaxle, who had just witnessed one of the most

 enjoyable days of his long life, laughed yet again. "He will

 come to his senses and will at last be free of the shadow of

 Drizzt Do'Urden. For that Artemis Entreri will thank me

 openly." He paused and considered his own words. "Or at

 least," the mercenary corrected, "he will... silently thank

 me."

    "He tried to die," Kimmuriel stated flatly. "When he went

 at Drizzt's back with the dagger he led the way with a shout

 that alerted the outcast. He tried to die and we, and I, at

 your bidding, stopped that."

    "Artemis Entreri will no doubt find other opportunities

 for stupidity if he holds that course," the mercenary leader

 replied with a shrug. "And we will not need him forever."

    Drizzt Do'Urden came down the stairs then in tattered

 clothing, stretching his sore arm, but otherwise seeming not

 too badly injured.

    "Rai'gy will have to pray to Lady Lolth for a hundred

 years to regain her favor after using one of her bestowed

 healing spells upon your dying form," Jarlaxle remarked with

 a laugh. He nodded to Kimmuriel, who bowed and left the room.

    "May she take him to her side for those prayers," Drizzt

 replied dryly. His witty demeanor did not hold, though, could

 not hold, in the face of all that he had just come through.

 He eyed Jarlaxle with all seriousness. "Why did you save me?"

    "Future favors?" Jarlaxle asked more than stated.

    "Forget it."

    Yet again Jarlaxle found himself laughing. "I envy you,

 Drizzt Do'Urden," he replied honestly. "Pride played no part

 in your fight, did it?"

    Drizzt shrugged, not quite understanding.

    "No, you were free of that self-defeating emotion,"

 Jarlaxle remarked. "You did not need to prove yourself

 Artemis Entreri's better. Indeed, I do envy you, to have

 found such inner peace and confidence."

    "You still have not answered my question."

    "A measure of respect, I suppose," Jarlaxle answered with

 a shrug. "Perhaps I did not believe that you deserved death

 after your worthy performance."

    "Would I have deserved death if my performance did not

 measure up to your standards, then?" Drizzt asked. "Why does

 Jarlaxle decide?"

    Jarlaxle wanted to laugh again but held it to a smile in

 deference to Drizzt. "Or perhaps I allowed my cleric to save

 you as a favor to your dead father," he said, and that put

 Drizzt on his heels, catching him completely by surprise.

    "Of course I knew Zaknafein," Jarlaxle explained. "He and

 I were friends, if I can be said to have any friends. We were

 not so different, he and I."

    Drizzt screwed up his face with obvious doubts.

    "We both survived," Jarlaxle explained. "We both found a

 way to thrive in a hostile land, in a place we despised but

 could not find the courage to leave."

    "But you have left now," Drizzt said.

    "Have I?" came the reply. "No, by building my empire in

 Menzoberranzan I have inextricably tied myself to the place.

 I will die there, I am sure, and probably by the hands of one

 of my own soldiers-perhaps even Artemis Entreri."

    Somehow Drizzt doubted the claim, suspecting that

 Jarlaxle would die of old age centuries hence.

    "I respected him greatly," the mercenary went on, his

 tone steady and serious. "Your father, I mean, and I believe

 it was mutual."

    Drizzt considered the words carefully and found that he

 couldn't disagree with Jarlaxle's claims. For all Jarlaxle's

 capacity for cruelty, there was indeed a code of honor about

 the mercenary leader. Jarlaxle had proven that when he had

 held Catti-brie captive and had not taken advantage of her,

 though he had even professed to her that he wanted to. He had

 proven it by allowing Drizzt, Catti-brie, and Entreri to walk

 out of the Under-dark after their escape from House Baenre,

 though surely he could have captured or killed them and such

 an act would have brought him great favor of the ruling

 house.

    And now, by not letting Drizzt die in such a manner, he

 had proven it again.

    "He'll not bother you ever again," Jarlaxle remarked,

 drawing Drizzt from his contemplation.

    "So I dared to hope once before."

    "But now it is settled," the mercenary leader explained.

 "Artemis Entreri has his answer, and though it is not what he

 had hoped it will suffice."

    Drizzt considered it for a moment then nodded, hoping

 Jarlaxle, who seemed to understand so very much about

 everyone, was right yet again.

    "Your friends await you in the village," Jarlaxle

 explained. "And it was no easy task getting them to go there

 and wait. I feared that I would taste the axe of Bruenor

 Battlehammer, and given the fate of Matron Baenre, that I did

 not wish at all."

    "But you persuaded them without injuring any of them,"

 Drizzt said.

    "I gave you my word, and that word I honor . . .

 sometimes."

    Now Drizzt, despite himself, couldn't hold back a grin.

 "Perhaps, then, I owe you yet again."

    "Future favors?"

    "Forget it."

    "Surrender the panther then," Jarlaxle teased. "How I

 would love to have Guenhwyvar at my side!"

    Drizzt understood that the mercenary was just teasing,

 that his promise concerning the panther, too, would hold.

 "Already you will have to look over your shoulder as I come

 for the crystal shard," the ranger replied. "If you take the

 cat, I will not only have to retrieve her but will have to

 kill you, as well."

    Those words surely raised the eyebrows of Rai'gy as he

 came onto the top of the stairs, but the two were merely

 bantering. Drizzt would not come for Crenshinibon, and

 Jarlaxle would not take the panther.

    Their business was completed.

    Drizzt left the crystalline tower then to rejoin his

 friends, all together and waiting for him in the village,

 unharmed as Jarlaxle had promised.

    After many tears and many hugs they left the village. But

 they did not go straight to the waiting Bottom Feeder but

 rather, back up the ridge.

    The crystalline tower was gone. Jarlaxle and the other

 drow were gone. Entreri was gone.

    "Good enough for them, if they bring the foul artifact

 back to yer old home and it brings all the ceiling down atop

 'em!" Bruenor snorted. "Good enough for them!"

    "And now we need not go to Cadderly," Catti-brie said.

 "Where then?"

    "Wulfgar?" Regis reminded.

    Drizzt paused a moment to consider Jarlaxle's words-

 trustworthy words-about their missing friend. He shook his

 head. It wasn't time for that road just yet. "We have the

 whole world open before us," he said. "And any direction will

 prove as good as another."

    "And now we don't have the damned crystal shard bringing

 monsters in on us at every turn," Catti-brie noted.

    "Won't be as much fun then," said Bruenor.

    And off they went to catch the sunset ... or the sunrise.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Back in Calimport Artemis Entreri, possibly the most

 powerful man on the streets, mulled over the titanic events

 of the last days, the amazing twists and turns his life's

 road had shown him.

    Drizzt Do'Urden was dead, he believed, and by his hand,

 though he had not proven the stronger.

    Or hadn't he? For wasn't it Entreri, and not Drizzt, who

 had befriended the more powerful allies?

    Or did it even matter?

    For the first time in many months a sincere smile found

 its way onto Artemis Entreri's face as he walked easily down

 Avenue Paradise, assured that none would dare move against

 him. He found the halfling door guards at the Copper Ante

 more than happy to see and admit him, and he found his way

 into Dondon's room without the slightest hindrance, without

 even questioning stares.

    He emerged a short while later to find an angry Dwahvel

 waiting for him.

    "You did it, didn't you?" she accused.

    "It had to be done," was all Entreri bothered to reply,

 wiping his bloodstained dagger on the cloak of one of the

 guards flanking Dwahvel, as if daring them to make a move

 against him. They did not, of course, and Entreri moved

 unhindered to the outside door.

    "Our arrangement is still in force?" he heard a plaintive

 Dwahvel call from behind. With a grin that nearly took in his

 ears, the ruler of House Basadoni left the inn.

  

                      * * * * *

  

    Wulfgar left Delly Curtie that night, as he did every

 night, bottle in hand. He went down to the wharves where his

 newest drinking buddy, a man of some repute, waited for him.

    "Wulfgar, my friend," Morik the Rogue said happily,

 taking the bottle and a deep, deep swallow of the burning

 liquid. "Is there anything that we two cannot accomplish

 together?"

    Wulfgar considered the words with a dull smile. Indeed,

 they were the kings of Half Moon Street, the two men who

 rated deferential nods from everyone they passed, the two men

 in all of Luskan's belly who could part a crowd merely by

 walking through it.

    Wulfgar took the bottle from Morik and, though it was

 more than half full, drained it in one swallow.

    He just had to.


