                     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 of Impresk Lake, 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 
Bremen and 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.
