
==================================
  ABC Amber LIT Converter v2.02
==================================PROLOGUE

 By all appearances, she was too fair a creature to bewalking through the swirling sludge of this smokylayer of the Abyss. Too beautiful, her features weresculpted fine and delicate, her shining ebony skin giving her the appearance of animated artwork, an obsidian sculpturecome to life.

 The monstrous things around her, crawling slugs and bat-winged denizens, monitored her every move, watched her carefully,cautiously. Even the largest and strongest of them, gigantic fiendsthat could sack a fair-sized city, kept a safe distance, for appearances could be deceiving. While this fine-featured female seemed delicate,even frail by the standards of the gruesome monsters of the Abyss,she could easily destroy any one, any ten, any fifty, of the fiendsnow watching her.

 They knew it, too, and her passage was unhindered. She was Lloth, the Spider Queen, goddess of the drow, the dark elves. Shewas chaos incarnate, an instrument of destruction, a monsterbeneath a delicate facade.

 Lloth calmly strolled into a region of tall, thick mushrooms clustered on small islands amid the grimy swirl. She walked from islandto island without concern, stepping so lightly about the slurpingsludge that not even the bottoms of her delicate black slippers weresoiled. She found many of this level's strongest inhabitants, eventrue tanar'ri fiends, sleeping amid those mushroom groves, androused them rudely. Inevitably, the irritable creatures came awake snarling and promising eternal torture, and just as inevitably, theywere much relieved when Lloth demanded of them only a singleanswer to a single question.

 "Where is he?" she asked each time, and, though none of themonsters knew of the great fiend's exact location, their answers ledLloth on, guided her until at last she found the beast she was looking for, a huge bipedal tanar'ri with a canine maw, the horns of abull, and tremendous, leathery wings folded behind its huge body. Looking quite bored, it sat in a chair it had carved from one of themushrooms, its grotesque head resting on the upraised palm of one hand. Dirty, curved claws scratched rhythmically against its pallidcheek. In its other hand the beast held a many-tongued whip and,every so often, snapped it about, lashing at the side of the mushroom chair, where crouched the unfortunate lesser creature it hadselected for torture during this point of eternity.

 The smaller denizen yelped and whined pitifully, and that drew another stinging crack of the merciless fiend's whip.

 The seated beast grunted suddenly, head coming up alert, redeyes peering intently into the smoky veil swirling all about the mushroom throne. Something was about, it knew, something powerful.

 Lloth walked into view, not slowing in the least as she regardedthis monster, the greatest of this area.

 A guttural growl escaped the tanar'ri's lips, lips that curled intoan evil smile, then turned down into a frown as it considered thepretty morsel walking into its lair. At first, the fiend thought Lloth agift, a lost, wandering dark elf far from the Material Plane and herhome. It didn't take the fiend long to recognize the truth of this one,

 though.

 It sat up straight in its chair. Then, with incredible speed andfluidity for one its size, it brought itself to its full height, twelve feet,and towered over the intruder.

 "Sit, Errtu," Lloth bade it, waving her hand impatiently. "I havenot come to destroy you. "

 A second growl issued from the proud tanar'ri, but Errtu madeno move for Lloth, understanding that she could easily do what shehad just claimed she had not come here to do. Just to salvage a bit of his pride, Errtu remained standing.

 "Sit!" Lloth said suddenly, fiercely, and Errtu, before he registered the movement, found himself back on the mushroom throne.Frustrated, he took up his whip and battered the sniveling beast that groveled at his side.

 "Why are you here, drow?" Errtu grumbled, his deep voicebreaking into higher, crackling whines, like fingernails on slate.

 "You have heard the rumblings of the pantheon?" Lloth asked.

 Errtu considered the question for a long moment. Of course hehad heard that the gods of the Realms were quarreling, stepping over each other in intrigue-laden power grabs and using intelligent lesser creatures as pawns in their private games. In the Abyss, thismeant that the denizens, even greater tanar'ri such as Errtu, were often caught up in unwanted political intrigue.

 Which was exactly what Errtu figured, and feared, was happening here.

 "A time of great strife is approaching," Lloth explained. "A timewhen the gods will pay for their foolishness. "

 Errtu chuckled, a grating, terrible sound. Lloth's red-glowinggaze fell over him scornfully.

 "Why would such an event displease you, Lady of Chaos?" thefiend asked.

 "This trouble will be beyond me," Lloth explained, deadly serious, "beyond us all. I will enjoy watching the fools of the pantheon jostled about, stripped of their false pride, some perhaps even slain,but any worshipped being who is not cautious will find herselfcaught in the trouble. "

 "Lloth was never known for caution," Errtu put in dryly.

 "Lloth was never a fool," the Spider Queen quickly replied.

 Errtu nodded but sat quietly for a moment on his mushroom throne, digesting it all. "What has this to do with me?" he askedfinally, for tanar'ri were not worshipped, and, thus, Errtu did notdraw his powers from the prayers of any faithful.

 "Menzoberranzan," Lloth replied, naming the fabled city ofdrow, the largest base of her worshippers in all the Realms.

 Errtu cocked his grotesque head.

 "The city is in chaos already," Lloth explained.

 "As you would have it," Errtu put in, and he snickered. "As youhave arranged it. "

 Lloth didn't refute that. "But there is danger," the beautifuldrow went on. "If I am caught in the troubles of the pantheon, theprayers of my priestesses will go unanswered. "

 "Am I expected to answer them?" Errtu asked incredulously.

 "The faithful will need protection. "

 "I cannot go to Menzoberranzan!" Errtu roared suddenly, hisoutrage, the outrage of years of banishment, spilling over. Menzoberranzan was a city of Faerun's Underdark, the great labyrinthbeneath the world's surface. But, though it was separated from the region of sunlight by miles of thick rock, it was still a place of theMaterial Plane. Years ago, Errtu had been on that plane, at the call ofa minor wizard, and had stayed there in search of Crenshinibon, theCrystal Shard, a mighty artifact, relic of a past and greater age ofsorcery. The great tanar'ri had been so close to the relic! He hadentered the tower it had created in its image, and had worked withits possessor, a pitiful human who would have died soon enough,leaving the fiend to his coveted treasure. But then Errtu had met adark elf, a renegade from Lloth's own flock, from Menzoberranzan,the city she now apparently wanted him to protect!

 Drizzt Do'Urden had defeated Errtu and, to a tanar'ri, a defeaton the Material Plane meant a hundred years of banishment in theAbyss.

 Now Errtu trembled visibly with rage, and Lloth took a stepbackward, preparing herself in case the beast attacked before shecould explain her offer. "You cannot go," she agreed, "but your minions can. I will see that a gate is kept open, if all the priestesses ofmy domain must tend it continually. "

 Errtu's thunderous roar drowned out the words.

 Lloth understood the source of that agony; a fiend's greatestpleasure was to walk loose on the Material Plane, to challenge the weak souls and weaker bodies of the various races. Lloth understood, but she did not sympathize. Evil Lloth never sympathizedwith any creature.

 "I cannot deny you!" Errtu admitted, and his great, bulbous,bloodshot eyes narrowed wickedly.

 His statement was true enough. Lloth could enlist his aid simplyby offering him his very existence in return. The Spider Queen wassmarter than that, however. If she enslaved Errtu and was, indeed, as she expected, caught up in the coming storm, Errtu might escape hercapture or, worse, find a way to strike back at her. Lloth was malicious and merciless in the extreme, but she was, above all else, intelligent. She had in her possession honey for this fly.

 "This is no threat," she said honestly to the fiend. "This is anoffer. "

 Errtu did not interrupt, still, the bored and outraged fiend trembled on the edge of catastrophe.

 "I have a gift, Errtu," she purred, "a gift that will allow you to end the banishment Drizzt Do'Urden has placed on you. "

 The tanar'ri did not seem convinced. "No gift," he rumbled."No magic can break the terms of banishment. Only he who banished me can end the indenture. "

 Lloth nodded her agreement; not even a goddess had the powerto go against that rule. "But that is exactly the point!" the SpiderQueen exclaimed. "This gift will make Drizzt Do'Urden want youback on his plane of existence, back within his reach. "

 Errtu did not seem convinced.

 In response, Lloth lifted one arm and clamped her fist tightly, and a signal, a burst of multicolored sparks and a rocking blast of thunder, shook the swirling sludge and momentarily stole the perpetual gray of the dismal level.

 Forlorn and beaten, head down—for it did not take one such as Lloth very long to sunder the pride—he walked from the fog. Errtu did not know him, but understood the significance of this gift.

 Lloth clamped her fist tight again, another explosive signalsounded, and her captive fell back into the veil of smoke.

 Errtu eyed the Spider Queen suspiciously. The tanar'ri wasmore than a little interested, of course, but he realized that mosteveryone who had ever trusted the diabolical Lloth had paid greatlyfor their foolishness. Still, this bait was too great for Errtu to resist. His canine maw turned up into a grotesque, wicked smile.

 "Look upon Menzoberranzan," Lloth said, and she waved herarm before the thick stalk of a nearby mushroom. The plant's fibersbecame glassy, reflecting the smoke, and, a moment later, Lloth andthe fiend saw the city of drow. "Your role in this will be small, I

 assure you," Lloth said, "but vital. Do not fail me, great Errtu!"

 It was as much a threat as a plea, the fiend knew.

 "The gift?" he asked.

 "When things are put aright. "

 Again a suspicious look crossed Errtu's huge face.

 "Drizzt Do'Urden is a pittance," Lloth said. "DaermonN'a'shezbaernon, his family, is no more, so he means nothing to me.Still, it would please me to watch great and evil Errtu pay back therenegade for all the inconveniences he has caused. "

 Errtu was not stupid, far from it. What Lloth was saying made perfect sense, yet he could not ignore the fact that it was Lloth, theSpider Queen, the Lady of Chaos, who was making these temptingoffers.

 Neither could he ignore the fact that her gift promised him relieffrom the interminable boredom. He could beat a thousand minorfiends a day, every day, torture them and send them crawling pitifully into the muck. But if he did that for a million days, it wouldnot equal the pleasure of a single hour on the Material Plane, walking among the weak, tormenting those who did not deserve hisvengeance.

 The great tanar'ri agreed.

 Part 1

 RUMBLES OF DISCORD

 I watched the preparations unfolding at Mithril Hall, preparations for war, for, though we, especially Catti-brie, had dealtHouse Baenre a stinging defeat back in Menzoberranzan,none of us doubted that the dark elves might come our wayonce more. Above all else, Matron Baenre was likely angry, and havingspent my youth in Menzoberranzan, I knew it was not a good thing tomake an enemy of the first matron mother.

 Still, I liked what I was seeing here in the dwarven stronghold. Most of all, I enjoyed the spectacle of Bruenor Battlehammer.

 Bruenor! My dearest friend. The dwarf 1 had fought beside since mydays in Icewind Dale—days that seemed very long ago indeed! I had fearedBruenor's spirit forever broken when Wulfgar fell, that the fire that hadguided this most stubborn of dwarves through seemingly insurmountableobstacles in his quest to reclaim his lost homeland had been forever doused.Notso,Ilearned in those days of preparation. Bruenor's physical scarswere deeper now—his left eye was lost, and a bluish line ran diagonallyacrosshis face, from forehead to jawbone —but the flames of spirit had beenrekindled, burning bright behind his good eye.

 Bruenor directed the preparations, from agreeing to the fortificationdesigns being constructed in the lowest tunnels to sending out emissariesto the neighboring settlements in search of allies. He asked for no help in the decision-making, and needed none, for this was Bruenor, Eighth King of Mithril Hall, a veteran of so many adventures, a dwarf who had earnedhis title.

 Now his grief was gone; he was king again, to the joy of his friends andsubjects. "Let the damned drow come!" Bruenor growled quite often, and always he nodded in my direction if I was about, as if to remind me that hemeant no personal insult.

 In truth, that determined war cry from Bruenor Battlehammer was

 among the sweetest things I had ever heard.

 What was it, I wondered, that had brought the grieving dwarf from hisdespair? And it wasn't just Bruenor; all about me I saw an excitement, inthe dwarves, in Catti-brie, even in Regis, the halfling known more forpreparing for lunch and nap than for war. I felt it, too. That tingling anticipation, that camaraderie that had me and all the others patting each otheron the back, offering praises for the simplest of additions to the commondefense, and raising our voices together in cheer whenever good news wasannounced.

 What was it? It was more than shared fear, more than giving thanksfor what we had while realizing that it might soon be stolen away. I didn'tunderstand it then, in that time of frenzy, in that euphoria of frantic preparations. Now, looking back, it is an easy thing to recognize.

 It was hope.

 To any intelligent being, there is no emotion more important thanhope. Individually or collectively, we must hope that the future will be better than the past, that our offspring, and theirs after them, will be a bitcloser to an ideal society, whatever our perception of that might be. Certainly a warrior barbarian's hope for the future might differ from the idealfostered in the imagination of a peaceful farmer. And a dwarf would notstrive to live in a world that resembled an elf's ideal! But the hope itself isnot so different. It is at those times when we feel we are contributing to thatultimate end, as it was in Mithril Hall when we believed the battle with Menzoberranzan would soon come—that we would defeat the dark elvesand end, once and for all, the threat from the Underdark city—we feel trueelation.

 Hope is the key. The future will be better than the past, or the present.Without this belief, there is only the self-indulgent, ultimately empty striving of the present, as in drow society, or simple despair, the time of lifewasted in waiting for death.

 Bruenor had found a cause—we all had—and never have I been morealive than in those days of preparation in Mithril Hall.

 —DrizztDo'Urden

 Chapter 1

 DIPLOMACY

 Her thick auburn hair bouncing below her shoulders,Catti-brie worked furiously to keep the drow'swhirling scimitars at bay. She was a solidly builtwoman, a hundred and thirty pounds of musclesfinely toned from living her life with Bruenor's dwarven clan.Catti-brie was no stranger to the forge or the sledge.

 Or the sword, and this new blade, its white-metal pommelsculpted in the likeness of a unicorn's head, was by far the most balanced weapon she had ever swung. Still, Catti-brie was hard-pressed, indeed, overmatched, by her opponent this day. Few inthe Realms could match blades with Drizzt Do'Urden, the drowranger.

 He was no larger than Catti-brie, a few pounds heavier perhaps, with his tight-muscled frame. His white hair hung as low asCatti-brie's mane and was equally thick, and his ebony skin glistened with streaks of sweat, a testament to the young woman'sprowess.

 Drizzt's two scimitars crossed in front of him (one of themglowing a fierce blue even through the protective padding that

  

 covered it), then went back out wide, inviting Catti-brie to thruststraight between.

 She knew better than to make the attempt. Drizzt was tooquick, and could strike her blade near its tip with one scimitar,while the other alternately parried low, batting the opposite waynear the hilt. With a single step diagonally to the side, followinghis closer-parrying blade, Drizzt would have her beaten.

 Catti-brie stepped back instead, and presented her sword infront of her. Her deep blue eyes peeked out around the blade,which had been thickened with heavy material, and she lockedstares with the drow's lavender orbs.

 "An opportunity missed?" Drizzt teased.

 "A trap avoided," Catti-brie was quick to reply.

 Drizzt came ahead in a rush, his blades crossing, going wide,and cutting across, one high and one low. Catti-brie dropped herleft foot behind her and fell into a crouch, turning her sword toparry the low-rushing blade, dipping her head to avoid the high.

 She needn't have bothered, for the cross came too soon, beforeDrizzt's feet had caught up to the move, and both his scimitarsswished through the air, short of the mark.

 Catti-brie didn't miss the opening, and darted ahead, swordthrusting.

 Back snapped Drizzt's blades, impossibly fast, slamming the sword on both its sides. But Drizzt's feet weren't positioned correctly for him to follow the move, to go diagonally ahead and takeadvantage of Catti-brie's turned sword.

 The young woman went ahead and to the side instead, slidingher weapon free of the clinch and executing the real attack, theslash at Drizzt's hip.

 Drizzt's backhand caught her short, drove her sword harmlessly high.

 They broke apart again, eyeing each other, Catti-brie wearing a sly smile. In all their months of training, she had never come so close to scoring a hit on the agile and skilled drow.

 Drizzt's expression stole her glory, though, and the drowdipped the tips of his scimitars toward the floor, shaking his headIn frustration.

 "The bracers?" Catti-brie asked, referring to the magical wrist bands, wide pieces of black material lined with gleaming mithril

 rings. Drizzt had taken them from Dantrag Baenre, the deposed weapon master of Menzoberranzan's first house, after defeatingDantrag in mortal combat. Rumors said those marvelous bracersallowed Dantrag's hands to move incredibly fast, giving him theadvantage in combat.

 Upon battling the lightning-quick Baenre, Drizzt had come tobelieve those rumors, and after wearing the bracers in sparring forthe last few weeks, he had confirmed their abilities. But Drizztwasn't convinced that the bracers were a good thing. In the fightwith Dantrag, he had turned Dantrag's supposed advantageagainst the drow, for the weapon master's hands moved tooquickly for Dantrag to alter any started move, too quickly forDantrag to improvise if his opponent made an unexpected turn.Now, in these sparring exercises, Drizzt was learning that the bracers held another disadvantage.

 His feet couldn't keep up with his hands.

 "Ye'll learn them," Catti-brie assured.

 Drizzt wasn't so certain. "Fighting is an art of balance andmovement," he explained.

 "And faster ye are!" Catti-brie replied.

 Drizzt shook his head. "Faster are my hands," he said. "A warrior does not win with his hands. He wins with his feet, by positioning himself to best strike the openings in his opponent'sdefenses. "

 "The feet'll catch up," Catti-brie replied. "Dantrag was thebest Menzoberranzan had to offer, and ye said yerself that thebracers were the reason. "

 Drizzt couldn't disagree that the bracers greatly aidedDantrag, but he wondered how much they would benefit one ofhis skill, or one of Zaknafein's, his father's, skill. It could be, Drizztrealized, that the bracers would aid a lesser fighter, one whoneeded to depend on the sheer speed of his weapons. But the complete fighter, the master who had found harmony between all his muscles, would be put off balance. Or perhaps the bracers wouldaid someone wielding a heavier weapon, a mighty warhammer,such as Aegis-fang. Drizzt's scimitars, slender blades of no morethan two pounds of metal, perfectly balanced by both workmanship and enchantment, weaved effortlessly, and, even without thebracers, his hands were quicker than his feet.

  

 "Come on then," Catti-brie scolded, waving her sword in frontof her, her wide blue eyes narrowing intently, her shapely hipsswiveling as she fell into a low balance.

 She sensed her chance, Drizzt realized. She knew he was fighting at a disadvantage and finally sensed her chance to pay backone of the many stinging hits he had given her in their sparring.

 Drizzt took a deep breath and lifted the blades. He owed it toCatti-brie to oblige, but he meant to make her earn it!

 He came forward slowly, playing defensively. Her sword shot out, and he hit it twice before it ever got close, on its left side withhis right hand, and on its left side again, bringing his left handright over the presented blade and batting it with a downwardparry.

 Catti-brie fell with the momentum of the double block, spinninga complete circle, rotating away from her adversary. When she camearound, predictably, Drizzt was in close, scimitars weaving.

 Still the patient drow measured his attack, did not come toofast and strong. His blades crossed and went out wide, teasing the young woman.

 Catti-brie growled and threw her sword straight out again,determined to find that elusive hole. And in came the scimitars,striking in rapid succession, again both hitting the left side ofCatti-brie's sword. As before, Catti-brie spun to the right, but thistime Drizzt came in hard.

 Down went the young woman in a low crouch, her rear grazing the floor, and she skittered back. Both of Drizzt's bladesswooshed through the air above and before her, for again his cuts came before his feet could rightly respond and position him.

 Drizzt was amazed to find that Catti-brie was no longer infront of him.

 He called the move the "Ghost Step," and had taught it toCatti-brie only a week earlier. The trick was to use the opponent'sswinging weapon as an optical shield, to move within the vision-blocked area so perfectly and quickly that your opponent wouldnot know you had come forward and to the side, that you had, infact, stepped behind his leading hip.

 Reflexively, the drow snapped his leading scimitar straightback, blade pointed low, for Catti-brie had gone past in a crouch.He beat the sword to the mark, too quickly, and the momentum of

  

 his scimitar sent it sailing futilely in front of the coming attack.

 Drizzt winced as the unicorn-handled sword slapped hardagainst his hip.

 For Catti-brie, the moment was one of pure delight. She knew,of course, that the bracers were hindering Drizzt, causing him tomake mistakes of balance—mistakes that Drizzt Do'Urden hadn'tmade since his earliest days of fighting—but even with the uncomfortable bracers, the drow was a powerful adversary, and couldlikely defeat most swordsmen.

 How delicious it was, then, when Catti-brie found her newsword slicing in unhindered!

 Her joy was stolen momentarily by an urge to sink the bladedeeper, a sudden, inexplicable anger focused directly on Drizzt.

 "Touch!" Drizzt called, the signal that he had been hit, andwhen Catti-brie straightened and sorted out the scene, she foundthe drow standing a few feet away, rubbing his sore hip.

 "Sorry," she apologized, realizing she had struck far too hard.

 "Not to worry," Drizzt replied slyly. "Surely your one hit doesnot equal the combined pains my scimitars have caused you." Thedark elf's lips curled up into a mischievous smile. "Or the pains Iwill surely inflict on you in return!"

 "Me thinking's that I'm catching ye, Drizzt Do'Urden," Catti-brie answered calmly, confidently. "Ye'll get yer hits, but ye'll take yer hits as well!"

 They both laughed at that, and Catti-brie moved to the side ofthe room and began to remove her practice gear.

 Drizzt slid the padding from one of his scimitars and considered those last words. Catti-brie was indeed improving, heagreed. She had a warrior's heart, tempered by a poet's philosophy, a deadly combination indeed. Catti-brie, like Drizzt, wouldrather talk her way out of a battle than wage it, but when the avenues of diplomacy were exhausted, when the fight became amatter of survival, then the young woman would fight with conscience clear and passion heated. All her heart and all her skillwould come to bear, and in Catti-brie, both of those ingredientswere considerable.

 And she was barely into her twenties! In Menzoberranzan, hadshe been a drow, she would be in Arach-Tinilith now, the school ofLloth, her strong morals being assaulted daily by the lies of the

  

 Spider Queen's priestesses. Drizzt shook that thought away; hedidn't even want to think of Catti-brie in that awful place. Supposeshe had gone to the drow school of fighters, Melee-Magthere,instead, he mused. How would she fare against the likes of youngdrow?

 Well, Drizzt decided, Catti-brie would be near the top of herclass, certainly among the top ten or fifteen percent, and her passion and dedication would get her there. How much could sheimprove under his tutelage? Drizzt wondered, and his expressionsoured as he considered the limitations of Catti-brie's heritage. He was in his sixties, barely more than a child by drow standards, forthey could live to see seven centuries, but when Catti-brie reachedhis tender age, she would be old, too old to fight well.

 That notion pained Drizzt greatly. Unless the blade of an enemy or the claws of a monster shortened his life, he wouldwatch Catti-brie grow old, would watch her pass from this life.

 Drizzt looked at her now as she removed the padded baldricand unclasped the metal collar guard. Under the padding abovethe waist, she wore only a simple shirt of light material. It was wetwith perspiration now and clung to her.

 She was a warrior, Drizzt agreed, but she was also a beautifulyoung woman, shapely and strong, with the spirit of a foal firstlearning to run and a heart filled with passion.

 The sound of distant furnaces, the sudden, increased ringingof hammer on steel, should have alerted Drizzt that the room'sdoor had opened, but it simply didn't register in the distracteddrow's consciousness.

 "Hey!" came a roar from the side of the chamber, and Drizzt turned to see Bruenor storm into the room. He half expected thedwarf, Catti-brie's adoptive, overprotective, father, to demandwhat in the Nine Hells Drizzt was looking at, and Drizzt's sighwas one of pure relief when Bruenor, his fiery red beard foamedwith spittle, instead took up a tirade about Settlestone, the barbarian settlement south of Mithril Hall.

 Still, the drow figured he was blushing (and hoped that hisebon-hued skin would hide it) as he shook his head, ran his fingersthrough his white hair to brush it back from his face, and likewisebegan to remove the practice gear.

 Catti-brie walked over, shaking her thick auburn mane to get

  

 the droplets out. "Berkthgar is being difficult?" she reasoned,referring to Berkthgar the Bold, Settlestone's new chieftain.

 Bruenor snorted. "Berkthgar can't be anything but difficult!"

 Drizzt looked up at beautiful Catti-brie. He didn't want to picture her growing old, though he knew she would do it with moregrace than most.

 "He's a proud one," Catti-brie replied to her father, "andafraid. "

 "Bah!" Bruenor retorted. "What's he got to be afraid of? Got acouple hunnerd strong men around him and not an enemy insight. "

 "He is afraid he will not stand well against the shadow of hispredecessor," Drizzt explained, and Catti-brie nodded.

 Bruenor stopped in midbluster and considered the drow'swords. Berkthgar was living in Wulfgar's shadow, in the shadow of the greatest hero the barbarian tribes of faraway Icewind Dale had ever known. The man who had killed Dracos Icingdeath, thewhite dragon; the man who, at the tender age of twenty, hadunited the fierce tribes and shown them a better way of living.

 Bruenor didn't believe any human could shine through thespectacle of Wulfgar's shadow, and his resigned nod showed thathe agreed with, and ultimately accepted, the truth of the reasoning. A great sadness edged his expression and rimmed his steel-gray eyes, as well, for Bruenor could not think of Wulfgar, thehuman who had been a son to him, without that sadness.

 "On what point is he being difficult?" Drizzt asked, trying topush past the difficult moment.

 "On the whole damned alliance," Bruenor huffed.

 Drizzt and Catti-brie exchanged curious expressions. It madeno sense, of course. The barbarians of Settlestone and the dwarvesof Mithril Hall already were allies, working hand in hand, withBruenor's people mining the precious mithril and shaping it intovaluable artifacts, and the barbarians doing the bargaining withmerchants from nearby towns, such as Nesme on the Trollmoors,or Silverymoon to the east. The two peoples, Bruenor's and Wulfgar's, had fought together to clear Mithril Hall of evil graydwarves, the duergar, and the barbarians had come down fromtheir homes in faraway Icewind Dale, resolved to stay, onlybecause of this solid friendship and alliance with Bruenor's clan. It

 made no sense that Berkthgar was being difficult, not with theprospect of a drow attack hanging over their heads.

 "He wants the hammer," Bruenor explained, recognizingDrizzt and Catti-brie's doubts.

 That explained everything. The hammer was Wulfgar's hammer, mighty Aegis-fang, which Bruenor himself had forged as agift for Wulfgar during the years the young man had been indentured to the red-bearded dwarf. During those years, Bruenor,Drizzt, and Catti-brie had taught the fierce young barbarian a better way.

 Of course Berkthgar would want Aegis-fang, Drizzt realized. The warhammer had become more than a weapon, had become asymbol to the hardy men and women of Settlestone. Aegis-fangsymbolized the memory of Wulfgar, and if Berkthgar could convince Bruenor to let him wield it, his stature among his peoplewould increase tenfold.

 It was perfectly logical, but Drizzt knew Berkthgar wouldnever, ever convince Bruenor to give him the hammer.

 The dwarf was looking at Catti-brie then, and Drizzt, inregarding her as well, wondered if she was thinking that givingthe hammer to the new barbarian leader might be a good thing.How many emotions must be swirling in the young woman'sthoughts! Drizzt knew. She and Wulfgar were to have been wed;she and Wulfgar had grown into adulthood together and hadlearned many of life's lessons side by side. Could Catti-brie nowget beyond that, beyond her own grief, and follow a logical course to seal the alliance?

 "No," she said finally, resolutely. "The hammer he cannothave. "

 Drizzt nodded his agreement, and was glad that Catti-briewould not let go of her memories of Wulfgar, of her love for theman. He, too, had loved Wulfgar, as a brother, and he could notpicture anyone else, neither Berkthgar nor the god Tempus himself, carrying Aegis-fang.

 "Never thought to give it to him," Bruenor agreed. He waggedan angry fist in the air, the muscles of his arm straining with theobvious tension. "But if that half-son of a reindeer asks again, I'llgive him something else, don't ye doubt!"

 Drizzt saw a serious problem brewing. Berkthgar wanted the

 hammer, that was understandable, even expected, but the young,ambitious barbarian leader apparently did not appreciate thedepth of his request. This situation could get much worse than astrain on necessary allies, Drizzt knew. This could lead to open fighting between the peoples, for Drizzt did not doubt Bruenor'sclaim for a moment. If Berkthgar demanded the hammer as ransom for what he should give unconditionally, he'd be lucky to get back into the sunshine with his limbs attached.

 "Me and Drizzt'll go to Settlestone," Catti-brie offered. "We'llget Berkthgar's word and give him nothing in return. "

 "The boy's a fool!" Bruenor huffed.

 "But his people are not foolish," Catti-brie added. "He's wanting the hammer to make himself more the leader. We'll teach himthat asking for something he cannot have will make him less theleader. "

 Strong, and passionate, and so wise, Drizzt mused, watchingthe young woman. She would indeed accomplish what she hadclaimed. He and Catti-brie would go to Settlestone and return witheverything Catti-brie had just promised her father.

 The drow blew a long, low sigh as Bruenor and Catti-briemoved off, the young woman going to retrieve her belongingsfrom the side of the room. He watched the renewed hop in Bruenor's step, the life returned to the fiery dwarf. How many yearswould King Bruenor Battlehammer rule? Drizzt wondered. A hundred? Two hundred?

 Unless the blade of an enemy or the claws of a monster shortened his life, the dwarf, too, would watch Catti-brie grow old andpass away.

 It was an image that Drizzt, watching the light step of thisspirited young foal, could not bear to entertain.

 *****

 Khazid'hea, or Cutter, rested patiently on Catti-brie's hip, its moment of anger passed. The sentient sword was pleased by theyoung woman's progress as a fighter. She was able, no doubt, but still Khazid'hea wanted more, wanted to be wielded by the veryfinest warrior.

 Right now, that warrior seemed to be Drizzt Do'Urden.

 The sword had gone after Drizzt when the drow renegade hadkilled its former wielder, Dantrag Baenre. Khazid'hea had alteredits pommel, as it usually did, from the sculpted head of a fiend(which had lured Dantrag) to one of a unicorn, knowing that wasthe symbol of Drizzt Do'Urden's goddess. Still, the drow rangerhad bade Catti-brie take the sword, for he favored the scimitar.

 Favored the scimitar!

 How Khazid'hea wished that it might alter its blade as it couldthe pommel! If the weapon could curve its blade, shorten andthicken it...

 But Khazid'hea could not, and Drizzt would not wield asword. The woman was good, though, and getting better. She washuman, and would not likely live long enough to attain as great aproficiency as Drizzt, but if the sword could compel her to slay thedrow...

 There were many ways to become the best.

 *  *  *  *  *

 Matron Baenre, withered and too old to be alive, even for adrow, stood in the great chapel of Menzoberranzan's first house, her house, watching the slow progress as her slave workers triedto extract the fallen stalactite from the roof of the dome-shapedstructure. The place would soon be repaired, she knew. The rubbleon the floor had already been cleared away, and the bloodstains of the dozen drow killed in the tragedy had long ago been scouredclean.

 But the pain of that moment, of Matron Baenre's supremeembarrassment in front of every important matron mother of Menzoberranzan, in the very moment of the first matron mother's pinnacle of power, lingered. The spearlike stalactite had cut into the roof, but it might as well have torn Matron Baenre's own heart.She had forged an alliance between the warlike houses of the drow city, a joining solidified by the promise of new glory when the drow army conquered Mithril Hall.

 New glory for the Spider Queen. New glory for Matron Baenre.

 Shattered by the point of a stalactite, by the escape of that renegade Drizzt Do'Urden. To Drizzt she had lost her eldest son,

 Dantrag, perhaps the finest weapon master in Menzoberranzan. ToDrizzt she had lost her daughter, wicked Vendes. And, mostpainful of all to the old wretch, she had lost to Drizzt and hisfriends the alliance, the promise of greater glory. For when thematron mothers, the rulers of Menzoberranzan and priestesses all,had watched the stalactite pierce the roof of this chapel, this mostsacred place of Lloth, at the time of high ritual, their confidencethat the goddess had sanctioned both this alliance and the coming war had crumbled. They had left House Baenre in a rush, back totheir own houses, where they sealed their gates and tried to discern the will of Lloth.

 Matron Baenre's status had suffered greatly.

 Even with all that had happened, though, the first matronmother was confident she could restore the alliance. On a necklaceabout her neck she kept a ring carved from the tooth of an ancientdwarven king, one Gandalug Battlehammer, patron of Clan Battle-hammer, founder of Mithril Hall. Matron Baenre owned Gandalug's spirit and could exact answers from it about the ways ofthe dwarven mines. Despite Drizzt's escape, the dark elves couldgo to Mithril Hall, could punish Drizzt and his friends.

 She could restore the alliance, but for some reason that MatronBaenre did not understand, Lloth, the Spider Queen herself, heldher in check. The yochlol, the handmaidens of Lloth, had come toBaenre and warned her to forego the alliance and instead focus herattention on her family, to secure her house defenses. It was ademand no priestess of the Spider Queen would dare disobey.

 She heard the harsh clicking of hard boots on the floor behindher and the jingle of ample jewelry, and she didn't have to turnabout to know that Jarlaxle had entered.

 "You have done as I asked?" she questioned, still looking atthe continuing work on the domed ceiling.

 "Greetings to you as well, First Matron Mother," the always sarcastic male replied. That turned Baenre to face him, and shescowled, as she and so many other of Menzoberranzan's rulingfemales scowled when they looked at the mercenary.

 He was swaggering—there was no other word to describe him.The dark elves of Menzoberranzan, particularly the lowly males,normally donned quiet, practical clothes, dark-hued robes adornedwith spiders or webs, or plain black jerkins beneath supple chain

  

 mail armor. And, almost always, both male and female drow wore camouflagingpiwafwis, dark cloaks that could hide them from theprobing eyes of their many enemies.

 Not so with Jarlaxle. His head was shaven and always cappedby an outrageous wide-brimmed hat feathering the gigantic plumeof a diatryma bird. In lieu of a cloak or robe, he wore a shimmeringcape that flickered through every color of the spectrum, both in light and under the scrutiny of heat-sensing eyes looking in theinfrared range. His sleeveless vest was cut high to show the tightmuscles of his stomach, and he carried an assortment of rings andnecklaces, bracelets, even anklets, that chimed gratingly—but onlywhen the mercenary wanted them to. Like his boots, which hadsounded so clearly on the hard chapel floor, the jewelry could besilenced completely.

 Matron Baenre noted that the mercenary's customary eyepatch was over his left eye this day, but what, if anything, that signified, she could not tell.

 For who knew what magic was in that patch, or in those jewelsand those boots, or in the two wands he wore tucked under hisbelt, and the fine sword he kept beside them? Half those items,even one of the wands, Matron Baenre believed, were likely fakes,with little or no magical properties other than, perhaps, the abilityto fall silent. Half of everything Jarlaxle did was a bluff, but half ofit was devious and ultimately deadly.

 That was why the swaggering mercenary was so dangerous.

 That was why Matron Baenre hated Jarlaxle so, and why sheneeded him so. He was the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, a network ofspies, thieves, and killers, mostly rogue males made houselesswhen their families had been wiped out in one of the many inter-house wars. As mysterious as their dangerous leader, BreganD'aerthe's members were not known, but they were indeed verypowerful—as powerful as most of the city's established houses—and very effective.

 "What have you learned?" Matron Baenre asked bluntly.

 "It would take me centuries to spew it all," the cocky roguereplied.

 Baenre's red-glowing eyes narrowed, and Jarlaxle realized shewas not in the mood for his flippancy. She was scared, he knew,and, considering the catastrophe at the high ritual, rightly so.

 "I find no conspiracy," the mercenary honestly admitted.

 Matron Baenre's eyes widened, and she swayed back on her heels, surprised by the straightforward answer. She had enactedspells that would allow her to detect any outright lies the merce nary spoke, of course. And of course, Jarlaxle would know that.Those spells never seemed to bother the crafty mercenary leader,who could dance around the perimeters of any question, neverquite telling the truth, but never overtly lying.

 This time, though, he had answered bluntly, and right to theheart of the obvious question. And as far as Matron Baenre could tell, he was telling the truth.

 Baenre could not accept it. Perhaps her spell was not functioning as intended. Perhaps Lloth had indeed abandoned her for her failure, and was thus deceiving her now concerning Jarlaxle's sincerity.

 "Matron Mez'Barris Armgo," Jarlaxle went on, referring to thematron mother of Barrison del'Armgo, the city's second house,"remains loyal to you, and to your cause, despite the..." Hefished about for the correct word. "The disturbance," he said atlength, "to the high ritual. Matron Mez'Barris is even ordering hergarrison to keep on the ready in case the march to Mithril Hall isresumed. And they are more than eager to go, I can assure you,especially with..." The mercenary paused and sighed with mocksadness, and Matron Baenre understood his reasoning.

 Logically, Mez'Barris would be eager to go to Mithril Hall, forwith Dantrag Baenre dead, her own weapon master, mighty Uthegental, was indisputably the greatest in the city. If Uthegentalcould get the rogue Do'Urden, what glories House Barrisondel'Armgo might know!

 Yet that very logic, and Jarlaxle's apparently honest claim, flewin the face of Matron Baenre's fears, for without the assistance ofBarrison del'Armgo, no combination of houses in Menzoberran-zan could threaten House Baenre.

 "The minor shuffling among your surviving children has commenced, of course," Jarlaxle went on. "But they have had little contact, and if any of them plan to move against you, it will bewithout the aid of Triel, who has been kept busy in the Academysince the escape of the rogue. "

 Matron Baenre did well to hide her relief at that statement. IfTriel, the most powerful of her daughters, and certainly the one

  

 most in Lloth's favor, was not planning to rise against her, a coupfrom within seemed unlikely.

 "It is expected that you will soon name Berg'inyon as weapon master, and Gromph will not oppose," Jarlaxle remarked.

 Matron Baenre nodded her agreement. Gromph was her elder-boy, and as Archmage of Menzoberranzan, he held more powerthan any male in the city (except for, perhaps, sly Jarlaxle).Gromph would not disapprove of Berg'inyon as weapon master ofHouse Baenre. The ranking of Baenre's daughters seemed secureas well, she had to admit. Triel was in place as Mistress Mother ofArach-Tinilith in the Academy, and, though those remaining in the house might squabble over the duties and powers left vacant bythe loss of Vendes, it didn't seem likely to concern her.

 Matron Baenre looked back to the spike Drizzt and his companions had put through the ceiling, and was not satisfied. In cruel and merciless Menzoberranzan, satisfaction and the smugness thatinevitably accompanied it too often led to an untimely demise.

 Chapter 2

 THE GUTBUSTER BRIGADE

 "Ye're thinking we'll need the thing?" Catti-brie asked asshe and Drizzt made their way along the lower levels ofMithril Hall. They moved along a corridor that openedwide to their left, into the great tiered cavern housingthe famed dwarven Undercity.

 Drizzt paused and regarded her, then went to the left, drawingCatti-brie behind him. He stepped through the opening, emergingon the second tier up from the huge cavern's floor.

 The place was bustling, with dwarves running every which way,shouting to be heard over the continual hum of great pumping bellows and the determined ring of hammer on mithril. This was theheart of Mithril Hall, a huge, open cavern cut into gigantic steps onboth its east and west walls, so that the whole place resembled aninverted pyramid. The widest floor area was the lowest level,between the gigantic steps, housing the huge furnaces. Strongdwarves pulled carts laden with ore along prescribed routes, whileothers worked the many levers of the intricate ovens, and still otherstugged smaller carts of finished metals up to the tiers. There the various craftsman pounded the ore into useful items. Normally, a great

 variety of goods would be produced here—fine silverware, gem-studded chalices, and ornate helmets—gorgeous but of little practicaluse. Now, though, with war hanging over their heads, the dwarvesfocused on weapons and true defensive armor. Twenty feet to the sideof Drizzt and Catti-brie, a dwarf so soot-covered that the color of hisbeard was not distinguishable leaned another iron-shafted, mithril—

 tippedballista bolt against the wall. The dwarf couldn't even reachthe top of the eight-foot spear, but he regarded its barbed and many-edged tip and chuckled. No doubt he enjoyed a fantasy concerning itsflight and little drow elves all standing in a row.

 On one of the arcing bridges spanning the tiers, perhaps a hundred and fifty feet up from the two friends, a substantial argumentbroke out. Drizzt and Catti-brie could not make out the wordsabove the general din, but they realized that it had to do with plans for dropping that bridge, and most of the other bridges, forcing anyinvading dark elves along certain routes if they intended to reachthe complex's higher levels.

 None of them, not Drizzt, Catti-brie, or any of Bruenor's people,hoped it would ever come to that.

 The two friends exchanged knowing looks. Rarely in the long history of Mithril Hall had the Undercity seen this kind of excitement. It bordered on frenzy. Two thousand dwarves rushed about,shouting, pounding their hammers, or hauling loads that a mulewouldn't pull.

 All of this because they feared the drow were coming.

 Catti-brie understood then why Drizzt had detoured into thisplace, why he had insisted on finding the halfling Regis beforegoing to Settlestone, as Bruenor had bade them.

 "Let's go find the sneaky one," she said to Drizzt, having to yellto be heard. Drizzt nodded and followed her back into the relativequiet of the dim corridors. They moved away from the Undercitythen, toward the remote chambers where Bruenor had told themthey could find the halfling. Silently they moved along—and Drizztwas impressed with how quietly Catti-brie had learned to move. Like him, she wore a fine mesh armor suit of thin but incrediblystrong mithril rings, custom fitted to her by Buster Bracer, the finestarmorer in Mithril Hall. Catti-brie's armor did little to diminish thedwarf's reputation, for it was so perfectly crafted and supple that it bent with her movements as easily as a thick shirt.

  

 Like Drizzt's, Catti-brie's boots were thin and well worn but, tothe drow's sharp ears, few humans, even so attired, could move sosilently. Drizzt subtly eyed her in the dim, flickering light of thewidely spaced torches. He noted that she was stepping like a drow,the ball of her foot touching down first, instead of the more common human heel-toe method. Her time in the Underdark, chasing Drizzt to Menzoberranzan, had served her well.

 The drow nodded his approval but made no comment. Catti-brie had already earned her pride points this day, he figured. Nosense in puffing up her ego any more.

 The corridors were empty and growing increasingly dark.Drizzt did not miss this point. He even let his vision slip into theinfrared spectrum, where the varying heat of objects showed himtheir general shapes. Human Catti-brie did not possess such Under-dark vision, of course, but around her head she wore a thin silverchain, set in its front with a green gemstone streaked by a single lineof black: a cat's eye agate. It had been given to her by Lady Alustrielherself, enchanted so that its wearer could see, even in the darkest,deepest tunnels, as though she were standing in an open field undera starry sky.

 The two friends had no trouble navigating in the darkness, butstill, they were not comfortable with it. Why weren't the torchesburning? they each wondered. Both had their hands close toweapon hilts; Catti-brie suddenly wished she had brought Taul-maril the Heartseeker, her magical bow, with her.

 A tremendous crash sounded, and the floor trembled undertheir feet. Both were down in a crouch immediately; Drizzt's scimitars appeared in his hands so quickly that Catti-brie didn't even register the movement. At first the young woman thought theimpossibly fast maneuver the result of the magical bracers, but, in glancing at Drizzt, she realized he wasn't even wearing them. Shelikewise drew her sword and took a deep breath, privately scoldingherself for thinking she was getting close in fighting skill to theincredible ranger. Catti-brie shook the thought aside—no time for itnow—and concentrated on the winding corridor ahead. Side byside, she and Drizzt slowly advanced, looking for shadows whereenemies might hide and for lines in the wall that would indicatecunning secret doors to side passages. Such ways were common inthe dwarven complex, for most dwarves could make them, and

 most dwarves, greedy by nature, kept personal treasures hiddenaway. Catti-brie did not know this little-used section of Mithril Hallvery well. Neither did Drizzt.

 Another crash came, and the floor trembled again, more thanbefore, and the friends knew they were getting closer. Catti-brie wasglad she had been training so hard, and gladder still that DrizztDo'Urden was by her side.

 She stopped moving, and Drizzt did likewise, turning to regardher.

 "Guenhwyvar?" she silently mouthed, referring to Drizzt'sfeline friend, a loyal panther that the drow could summon from theAstral Plane.

 Drizzt considered the suggestion for a moment. He tried not tosummon Guenhwyvar too often now, knowing there might soon be a time when the panther would be needed often. There were limitson the magic; Guenhwyvar could only remain on the Material Plane for half a day out of every two.

 Not yet, Drizzt decided. Bruenor had not indicated what Regismight be doing down here, but the dwarf had given no hint thatthere might be danger. The drow shook his head slightly, and thetwo moved on, silent and sure.

 A third crash came, followed by a groan.

 "Yer head, ye durned fool!" came a sharp scolding. "Ye gots touse yer stinkin' head!"

 Drizzt and Catti-brie straightened immediately and relaxedtheir grips on their weapons. "Pwent," they said together, referringto Thibbledorf Pwent, the outrageous battlerager, the most obnoxious and bad-smelling dwarf south of the Spine of the World (andprobably north of it, as well).

 "Next ye'll be wantin' to wear a stinkin' helmet!" the tirade continued.

 Around the next bend, the two companions came to a fork in the corridor. To the left, Pwent continued roaring in outrage; to the rightwas a door with torchlight showing through its many cracks. Drizztcocked his head, catching a slight and familiar chuckle that way.

 He motioned for Catti-brie to follow and went through the door without knocking. Regis stood alone inside, leaning on a crank nearthe left-hand wall. The halfling's smile lit up when he saw hisfriends, and he waved one hand high to them—relatively high, for

 Regis was small, even by halfling standards, his curly brown hairbarely topping three feet. He had an ample belly, though it seemedto be shrinking of late, as even the lazy halfling took seriously thethreat to this place that had become his home.

 He put a finger over pursed lips as Drizzt and Catti-brieapproached, and he pointed to the "door" before him. It didn't takeeither of the companions long to understand what was transpiring.The crank next to Regis operated a sheet of heavy metal that ran along runners above and to the side of the door. The wood of thedoor could hardly be seen now, for the plate was in place rightbefore it.

 "Go!" came a thunderous command from the other side, followed by charging footsteps and a grunting roar, then a tremendous explosion as the barreling dwarf hit, and of course bounced off, thebarricaded portal.

 "Battlerager training," Regis calmly explained.

 Catti-brie gave Drizzt a sour look, remembering what her fatherhad told her of Pwent's plans. "The Gutbuster Brigade," sheremarked, and Drizzt nodded, for Bruenor had told him, too, thatThibbledorf Pwent meant to train a group of dwarves in the not-so-subtle art of battleraging, his personal Gutbuster Brigade, highlymotivated, skilled in frenzy, and not too smart.

 Another dwarf hit the barricaded door, probably headfirst, andDrizzt understood how Pwent meant to facilitate the third of histhree requirements for his soldiers.

 Catti-brie shook her head and sighed. She did not doubt themilitary value of the brigade—Pwent could outfight anyone inMithril Hall, except for Drizzt and maybe Bruenor, but the notion ofa bunch of little Thibbledorf Pwents running around surely turnedher stomach!

 Behind the door, Pwent was thoroughly scolding his troops,calling them every dwarven curse name, more than a few that Catti-brie, who had lived among the clan for more than a score of years,had never heard, and more than a few that Pwent seemed to bemaking up on the spot, such as "mule-kissin', flea-sniffin', water-drinkin', who-thinks-ye-squeeze-the-durned-cow-to-get-the-durned-milk, lumps o' sandstone. "

 "Wo are off to Settlestone," Drizzt explained to Regis, the drowsuddenly anxious to be out of there. "Berkthgar is being difficult. "

  

 Regis nodded. "I was there when he told Bruenor he wanted thewarhammer." The halfling's cherubic face turned up into one of hiscommon, wistful smiles. "I truly believed Bruenor would cleavehim down the middle!"

 "We're needing Berkthgar," Catti-brie reminded the halfling,

 Regis pooh-poohed that thought away. "Bluffing," he insisted."Berkthgar needs us, and his people would not take kindly to histurning his back on the dwarves who have been so good to his folk. "

 "Bruenor would not really kill him," Drizzt said, somewhatunconvincingly. All three friends paused and looked to each other,each considering the tough dwarf king, the old and fiery Bruenorreturned. They thought of Aegis-fang, the most beautiful of weapons, the flanks of its gleaming mithril head inscribed with the sacredrunes of the dwarven gods. One side was cut with the hammer and anvil of Moradin the Soulforger, the other with the crossed axes ofClanggedon, dwarven god of battle, and both were covered perfectly by the carving of the gem within the mountain, the symbol ofDumathoin, the Keeper of Secrets. Bruenor had been among the bestof the dwarven smiths, but after Aegis-fang, that pinnacle of cre ative triumph, he had rarely bothered to return to his forge.

 They thought of Aegis-fang, and they thought of Wulfgar, whohad been like Bruenor's son, the tall, fair-haired youth for whomBruenor had made the mighty hammer.

 "Bruenorwould really kill him," Catti-brie said, echoing thethoughts of all three.

 Drizzt started to speak, but Regis stopped him by holding up afinger.

 "...now get yer head lower!" Pwent was barking on the other side of the door. Regis nodded and smiled and motioned for Drizztto continue.

 "We thought you might—"

 Another crash sounded, then another groan, followed by theflapping of dwarven lips as the fallen would-be battlerager shookhis head vigorously.

 "Good recovery!" Pwent congratulated.

 "We thought you might accompany us," Drizzt said, ignoringCatti-brie's sigh of disgust.

 Regis thought about it for a moment. The halfling would haveliked to get out of the mines and stretch in the sunshine once more,

  

 though the summer was all but over and the autumn chill alreadybegan to nip the air.

 "I have to stay," the unusually dedicated halfling remarked."I've much to do. "

 Both Drizzt and Catti-brie nodded. Regis had changed over thelast few months, during the time of crisis. When Drizzt and Catti-brie had gone to Menzoberranzan—Drizzt to end the threat toMithril Hall, Catti-brie to find Drizzt—Regis had taken command tospur grieving Bruenor into preparing for war. Regis, who had spent most of his life finding the softest couch to lie upon, had impressed even the toughest dwarf generals, even Thibbledorf Pwent, with hisfire and energy. Now the halfling would have loved to go, both ofthem knew, but he remained true to his mission.

 Drizzt looked hard at Regis, trying to find the best way to make his request. To his surprise, the halfling saw it coming, and immediately Regis's hands went to the chain about his neck. He lifted theruby pendant over his head and casually tossed it to Drizzt.

 Another testament to the halfling's growth, Drizzt knew, as hestared down at the sparkling ruby affixed to the chain. This was thehalfling's most precious possession, a powerful charm Regis hadstolen from his old guild master in far-off Calimport. The halflinghad guarded it, coveted it, like a mother lion with a single cub, atleast until this point.

 Drizzt continued to look at the ruby, felt himself drawn by its multiple facets, spiraling down to depths that promised...

 The drow shook his head and forced himself to look away. Evenwithout one to command it, the enchanted ruby had reached out forhim! Never had he witnessed such a powerful charm. And yet,Jarlaxle, the mercenary, had given it back to him, had willinglyswapped it when they had met in the tunnels outside Menzoberranzan after Drizzt's escape. It was unexpected and important that Jarlaxle had given it back to Drizzt, but what the significance might be,Drizzt had not yet discerned.

 "You should be careful before using that on Berkthgar," Regis said, drawing Drizzt from his thoughts. "He is proud, and if he figures out that sorcery was used against him, the alliance may indeedbe dissolved. "

 "True enough," Catti-brie agreed. She looked to Drizzt.

 "Only if we need it," the drow remarked, looping the chain

 about his neck. The pendant settled near his breast and the ivoryunicorn head, symbol of his goddess, that rested there.

 Another dwarf hit the door and bounced off, then lay groaningon the floor.

 "Bah!" they heard Pwent snort. "Ye're a bunch o' elf-lickin' pixies! I'll show ye how it's done!"

 Regis nodded—that was his cue—and immediately began toturn the crank, drawing the metal plate out from behind the portal.

 "Watch out," he warned his two companions, for they stood in the general direction of where Pwent would make his door-bustingentrance.

 "I'm for leaving," Catti-brie said, starting for the other, normal,door. The young woman had no desire to see Pwent. Likely, hewould pinch her cheek with his grubby fingers and tell her to "workon that beard" so that she might be a beautiful woman.

 Drizzt didn't take much convincing. He held up the ruby, nodded a silent thanks to Regis, and rushed out into the hall after Catti-brie.

 They hadn't gone a dozen steps when they heard the trainingdoor explode, followed by Pwent's hysterical laughter and theadmiring "oohs" and "aahs" of the naive Gutbuster Brigade.

 "We should send the lot of them to Menzoberranzan," Catti-brie said dryly. "Pwent'd chase the whole city to the ends of the world!"

 Drizzt—who had grown up among the unbelievably powerfuldrow houses and had seen the wrath of the high priestesses andmagical feats beyond anything he had witnessed in his years on the surface—did not disagree.

 *      *      *     *      *

 Councilor Firble ran a wrinkled hand over his nearly bald pate,feeling uncomfortable in the torchlight. Firble was a svirfneblin, adeep gnome, eighty pounds of wiry muscles packed into a three-and-a-half-foot frame. Few races of the Underdark could get along as well as the svirfnebli, and no race, except perhaps the rare pech,understood the ways of the deep stone so well.

 Still, Firble was more than a bit afraid now, out in the (hopefully) empty corridors beyond the borders of Blingdenstone, the citythat was his home. He hated the torchlight, hated any light, but the

 orders from King Schnicktick were final and unarguable: no gnomewas to traverse the corridors without a burning torch in his hand.

 No gnome except for one. Firble's companion this day carriedno torch, for he possessed no hands. Belwar Dissengulp, Most Honored Burrow Warden of Blingdenstone, had lost his hands to drow,to Drizzt Do'Urden's brother Dinin, many years before. Unlike somany other Underdark races, though, the svirfnebli were not without compassion, and their artisans had fashioned marvelousreplacements of pure, enchanted mithril: a block-headed hammer capping Belwar's right arm and a two-headed pickaxe on his left.

 "Completed the circuit, we have," Firble remarked. "And backto Blingdenstone we go!"

 "Not so!" Belwar grumbled. His voice was deeper and strongerthan those of most svirfnebli, and was fitting, considering his stout, barrel-chested build.

 "There are no drow in the tunnels," Firble insisted. "Not a fightin three weeks!" It was true enough; after months of battling drowfrom Menzoberranzan in the tunnels near Blingdenstone, the corridors had gone strangely quiet. Belwar understood that DrizztDo'Urden, his friend, had somehow played a part in this change,and he feared that Drizzt had been captured or killed.

 "Quiet, it is," Firble said more softly, as if he had just realized thedanger of his own volume. A shudder coursed the smaller svirfneblin's spine. Belwar had forced him out here—it was his turn in therotation, but normally one as experienced and venerable as Firblewould have been excused from scouting duties. Belwar had insisted,though, and for some reason Firble did not understand, KingSchnicktick had agreed with the most honored burrow warden.

 Not that Firble was unaccustomed to the tunnels. Quite the contrary. He was the only gnome of Blingdenstone with actual contactsin Menzoberranzan, and was more acquainted with the tunnels nearthe drow city than any other deep gnome. That dubious distinctionwas causing Firble fits these days, particularly from Belwar. When adisguised Catti-brie had been captured by the svirfnebli, and subse quently recognized as no enemy, Firble, at great personal risk, hadbeen the one to show her quicker, secret ways into Menzoberranzan.

 Now Belwar wasn't worried about any drow in the tunnels,Firble knew. The tunnels were quiet. The gnome patrols and other secret allies could find no hint that any drow were about at all, not

 even along the dark elves' normal routes closer to Menzoberranzan. Something important had happened in the drow city, that much wasobvious, and it seemed obvious, too, that Drizzt and that troublesome Catti-brie were somehow involved. That was the real reason Belwar had forced Firble out here, Firble knew, and he shudderedagain to think that was why King Schnicktick had so readily agreedwith Belwar.

 "Something has happened," Belwar said, unexpectedly playing his cards, as though he understood Firble's line of silent reasoning. "Something in Menzoberranzan. "

 Firble eyed the most honored burrow warden suspiciously. He knew what would soon be asked of him, knew that he would soonbe dealing with that trickster Jarlaxle again.

 "The stones themselves are uneasy," Belwar went on.

 "As if the drow will soon march," Firble interjected dryly.

 "Cosim camman denoctusd,"Belwar agreed, in an ancient svirfneblin saying that translated roughly into "the settled ground beforethe earthquake," or, as it was more commonly known to surfacedwellers, "the calm before the storm. "

 "That I meet with my drow informant, King Schnicktickdesires," Firble reasoned, seeing no sense in holding back the guessany longer. He knew he would not be suggesting something thatBelwar wasn't about to suggest to him.

 "Cosim camman denoctusd,"Belwar said again, this time moredeterminedly. Belwar and Schnicktick, and many others in Blingdenstone, were convinced that the drow would soon march in force.Though the most direct tunnels to the surface, to where DrizztDo'Urden called home, were east of Blingdenstone, beyond Menzoberranzan, the drow first would have to set out west, and wouldcome uncomfortably close to the gnome city. So unsettling was thatthought that King Schnicktick had ordered scouting parties far tothe east and south, as far from home and Menzoberranzan as thesvirfnebli had ever roamed. There were whispers of deserting Blingdenstone altogether, if the rumors proved likely and a new location could be found. No gnome wanted that, Belwar and Firble perhapsleast of all. Both were old, nearing their second full century, andboth were tied, heart and soul, to this city called Blingdenstone.

 But among all the svirfnebli, these two understood the power ofa drow march, understood that if Menzoberranzan's army came to

 Blingdenstone, the gnomes would be obliterated.

 "Set up the meeting, I will," Firble said with a resigned sigh."He will tell me little, I do not doubt. Never does he, and highalways is the price!"

 Belwar said nothing, and sympathized little for the cost of sucha meeting with the greedy drow informant. The most honored burrow warden understood that the price of ignorance would be muchhigher. He also realized that Firble understood, as well, and that thecouncilor's apparent resignation was just a part of Firble's bluster. Belwar had come to know Firble well, and found that he liked theoft-complaining gnome.

 Now Belwar, and every other svirfneblin in Blingdenstone, desperately needed Firble and his contacts.

 Chapter 3

 AT PLAY

 Drizzt and Catti-brie skipped down the rocky trails,weaving in and out of boulder tumbles as effortlesslyand spiritedly as two children at play. Their trekbecame an impromptu race as each hopped breaks inthe stone, leaped to catch low branches, then swung down as far asthe small mountain trees would carry them. They came onto one low, level spot together, where each leaped a small pool (though Catti-brie didn't quite clear it) and split up as they approached a slab of rock taller than either of them. Catti-brie went right andDrizzt started left, then changed his mind and headed up the side of the barrier instead.

 Catti-brie skidded around the slab, pleased to see that she was first to the other side.

 "My lead!" she cried, but even as she spoke she saw her companion's dark, graceful form sail over her head.

 "Not so!" Drizzt corrected, touching down so lightly that itseemed as if he had never been off the ground. Catti-brie groanedand kicked into a run again, but pulled up short, seeing that Drizzthad stopped.

 "Too fine a day," the dark elf remarked. Indeed, it was as fine aday as the southern spur of the Spine of the World ever offeredonce the autumn winds began to blow. The air was crisp, thebreeze cool, and puffy white clouds—gigantic snowballs, theyseemed—raced across the deep blue sky on swift mountain winds.

 "Too fine for arguing with Berkthgar," Catti-brie added, thinking that was the direction of the drow's statement. She bent a bitand put her hands to her thighs for support, then turned her headback and up, trying to catch her breath.

 "Too fine to leave Guenhwyvar out of it!" Drizzt clarified happily.

 Catti-brie's smile was wide when she looked down to seeDrizzt take the onyx panther figurine out of his backpack. It wasamong the most beautiful of artworks Catti-brie had ever seen,perfectly detailed to show the muscled flanks and the true, insightful expression of the great cat. As perfect as it was, though, the figurine paled beside the magnificent creature that it allowed Drizztto summon.

 The drow reverently placed the item on the ground beforehim. "Come to me, Guenhwyvar," he called softly. Apparently thepanther was eager to return, for a gray mist swirled about the item almost immediately, gradually taking shape and solidifying.

 Guenhwyvar came to the Material Plane with ears straight up,relaxed, as though the cat understood from the inflections ofDrizzt's call that there was no emergency, that she was being summoned merely for companionship.

 "We are racing to Settlestone," Drizzt explained. "Do youthink you can keep pace?"

 The panther understood. A single spring from powerful hindlegs sent Guenhwyvar soaring over Catti-brie's head, across thetwenty-foot expanse to the top of the rock slab she and Drizzt hadjust crossed. The cat hit the rock's flat top, backpedaled, and spunto face the duo. Then for no other reason than to give praise to theday, Guenhwyvar reared and stood tall in the air, a sight that senther friends' hearts racing. Guenhwyvar was six hundred pounds, twice the size of an ordinary panther, with a head almost as wideas Drizzt's shoulders, a paw that could cover a man's face, andspectacular, shining green eyes that revealed an intelligence farbeyond what an animal should possess. Guenhwyvar was themost loyal of companions, an unjudging friend, and every time

 Drizzt or Catti-brie, or Bruenor or Regis, looked at the cat, theirlives were made just a bit warmer.

 "Me thinking's that we should get a head start," Catti-briewhispered mischievously.

 Drizzt gave a slight, inconspicuous nod, and they broketogether, running full-out down the trail. A few seconds later theyheard Guenhwyvar roar behind them, still from atop the slab ofrock. The trail was relatively clear and Drizzt sprinted out aheadof Catti-brie, though the woman, young and strong, with a heartthat would have been more appropriate in the chest of a sturdydwarf, could not be shaken.

 "Ye're not to beat me!" she cried, to which Drizzt laughed. Hismirth disappeared as he rounded a bend to find that stubborn anddaring Catti-brie had taken a somewhat treacherous shortcut,light-skipping over a patch of broken and uneven stones, to takean unexpected lead.

 Suddenly this was more than a friendly competition. Drizzt lowered his head and ran full-out, careening down the uneven ground so recklessly that he was barely able to avoid smacking face first into a tree. Catti-brie paced him, step for step, and kept her lead.

 Guenhwyvar roared again, still from the slab, they knew, andthey knew, too, that they were being mocked.

 Sure enough, barely a few seconds later, a black streakrebounded off a wall of stone to Drizzt's side, crossing level withthe drow's head. Guenhwyvar cut back across the trail betweenthe two companions, and passed Catti-brie so quickly and sosilently that she hardly realized she was no longer leading.

 Sometime later, Guenhwyvar let her get ahead again, thenDrizzt took a treacherous shortcut and slipped into the front—onlyto be passed again by the panther. So it went, with competitiveDrizzt and Catti-brie working hard, and Guenhwyvar merely hardat play.

 The three were exhausted—at least Drizzt and Catti-brie were;Guenhwyvar wasn't even breathing hard—when they broke forlunch on a small clearing, protected from the wind by a high wallon the north and east, and dropping off fast in a sheer cliff to thesouth. Several rocks dotted the clearing, perfect stools for the tiredcompanions. A grouping of stones was set in the middle as a firepit, for this was a usual campsite of the oft-wandering drow.

 Catti-brie relaxed while Drizzt brought up a small fire. Farbelow she could see the gray plumes of smoke rising lazily into theclear air from the houses of Settlestone. It was a sobering sight, forit reminded the young woman, who had spent the morning at sucha pace, of the gravity of her mission and of the situation. Howmany runs might she and Drizzt and Guenhwyvar share if thedark elves came calling?

 Those plumes of smoke also reminded Catti-brie of the manwho had brought the tough barbarians to this place from IcewindDale, the man who was to have been her husband. Wulfgar haddied trying to save her, had died in the grasp of a yochlol, a handmaiden of evil Lloth. Both Catti-brie and Drizzt had to bear someresponsibility for that loss, yet it wasn't guilt that pained theyoung woman now, or that pained Drizzt. He, too, had noticed the smoke and had taken a break from his fire-tending to watch andcontemplate.

 The companions did not smile now, for simple loss, becausethey had taken so many runs just like this one, except that Wulfgarhad raced beside them, his long strides making up for the fact that he could not squeeze through breaks that his two smaller companions could pass at full speed.

 "I wish..."Catti-brie said, and the words resonated in theears of the similarly wishing dark elf.

 "Our war, if it comes, would be better fought with Wulfgar,son of Beornegar, leading the men of Settlestone," Drizzt agreed, and what both he and Catti-brie silently thought was that all theirlives would be better if Wulfgar were alive.

 There. Drizzt had said it openly, and there was no more to say.They ate their lunch silently. Even Guenhwyvar lay very still and made not a sound.

 Catti-brie's mind drifted from her friends, back to IcewindDale, to the rocky mountain, Kelvin's Cairn, dotting the otherwiseflat tundra. It was so similar to this very place. Colder, perhaps, but the air held the same crispness, the same clear, vital texture.How far she and her friends, Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, Bruenorand Regis, and, of course, Wulfgar, had come from that place! Andin so short a time! A frenzy of adventures, a lifetime of excitementand thrills and good deeds. Together they were an unbeatableforce.

 So they had thought.

 Catti-brie had seen the emotions of a lifetime, indeed, and shewas barely into her twenties. She had run fast through life, like herrun down the mountain trails, free and high-spirited, skippingwithout care, feeling immortal.

 Almost.

 Chapter 4

 AT THE SEAMS

 "A conspiracy?"the drow's fingers flashed, using the silenthand code of the dark elves, its movements so intricateand varied that nearly every connotation of every word in the drow language could be represented.Jarlaxle replied with a slight shake of his head. He sighed andseemed sincerely perplexed—a sight not often seen—and motionedfor his cohort to follow him to a more secure area.

 They crossed the wide, winding avenues of Menzoberranzan,flat, clear areas between the towering stalagmite mounds that servedas homes to the various drow families. Those mounds, and a fairnumber of long stalactites leering down from the huge cavern's ceiling, were hollowed out and sculpted with sweeping balconies andwalkways. The clusters within each family compound were oftenjoined by high bridges, most shaped to resemble spiderwebs. And onall the houses, especially those of the older and more established families, the most wondrous designs were highlighted by glowing faeriefire, purple and blue, sometimes outlined in red and, not so often, ingreen. Menzoberranzan was the most spectacular of cities, breathtaking, surreal, and an ignorant visitor (who would not be ignorant, or

 likely even alive, for long!) would never guess that the artisans ofsuch beauty were among the most malicious of Toril's races.

 Jarlaxle moved without a whisper down the darker, tighteravenues surrounding the lesser houses. His focus was ahead and tothe sides, his keen eye (and his eye patch was over his right eye at the time) discerning the slightest of movements in the most distant shadows.

 The mercenary leader's surprise was complete when he glancedback at his companion and found, not M'tarl, the lieutenant of Bregan D'aerthe he had set out with, but another, very powerful, drow.

 Jarlaxle was rarely without a quick response, but the specter ofGromph Baenre, Matron Baenre's elderboy, the archmage of Menzoberranzan, standing so unexpectedly beside him, surely stole hiswit.

 "I trust that M'tarl will be returned to me when you are finished," Jarlaxle said, quickly regaining his seldom-lost composure.

 Without a word, the archmage waved his arm, and a shimmering green globe appeared in the air, several feet from the floor. Athin silver cord hung down from it, its visible end barely brushingthe stone floor.

 Jarlaxle shrugged and took up the cord, and as soon as hetouched it, he was drawn upward into the globe, into the extradimensional space beyond the shimmering portal.

 The casting was impressive, Jarlaxle decided, for he foundwithin not the usual empty space created by such an evocation, buta lushly furnished sitting room, complete with a zombielike servantthat offered him a drink of fine wine before he ever sat down. Jarlaxle took a moment to allow his vision to shift into the normal spectrum of light, for the place was bathed in a soft blue glow. This wasnot unusual for wizards, even drow wizards accustomed to thelightless ways of the Underdark, for one could not read scrolls orspellbooks without light!

 "He will be returned if he can survive where I put him longenough for us to complete our conversation," Gromph replied. The wizard seemed not too concerned, as he, too, came into the extradimensional pocket. The mighty Baenre closed his eyes and whispered a word, and hispiwafwi cloak and other unremarkable attiretransformed. Now he looked the part of his prestigious station. Hisflowing robe showed many pockets and was emblazoned with sigils

 and runes of power. As with the house structures, faerie fire highlighted these runes, though the archmage could darken the runes with a thought, and then his robe would be more concealing thanthe finest ofpiwafwis. Two brooches, one a black-legged, red-bodiedspider, the other a shining green emerald, adorned the magnificentrobe, though Jarlaxle could hardly see them, for the old wizard'slong white hair hung down the side of his head and in front of his shoulders and chest.

 With his interest in things magical, Jarlaxle had seen thebrooches on the city's previous archmage, though Gromph had heldthe position longer than most of Menzoberranzan's drow had beenalive. The spider brooch allowed the archmage to cast thelingering heat enchantment into Narbondel, the pillar clock of Menzoberranzan. The heat would rise to the tip of the clock over a twelve-hourperiod, then diminish back toward the base in a like amount of time,until the stone was again cool, a very obvious and effective clock forheat-sensing drow eyes.

 The other brooch gave Gromph perpetual youth. By Jarlaxle'sestimation, this one had seen the birth and death of seven centuries,yet so young did he appear that it seemed he might be ready tobegin his training at the drow Academy!

 Not so, Jarlaxle silently recanted in studying the wizard. Therewas an aura of power and dignity about Gromph, reflected clearlyin his eyes, which showed the wisdom of long and often bitter experience. This one was cunning and devious, able to scrutinize any situation immediately, and in truth, Jarlaxle felt more uncomfortableand more vulnerable standing before Gromph than before MatronBaenre herself.

 "A conspiracy?" Gromph asked again, this time aloud. "Havethe other houses finally become fed up with my mother and banded together against House Baenre?"

 "I have already given a full accounting to Matron—"

 "I heard every word," Gromph interrupted, snarling impatiently. "Now I wish to know the truth. "

 "An interesting concept," Jarlaxle said, smiling wryly at therealization that Gromph was truly nervous. "Truth. "

 "A rare thing," Gromph agreed, regaining his composure andresting back in his chair, his slender fingers tapping together before him. "But a thing that sometimes keeps meddling fools alive. "

  

 Jarlaxle's smile vanished. He studied Gromph intently, surprised at so bold a threat. Gromph was powerful—by all measuresof Menzoberranzan, the old wretch was as powerful as any malecould become. But Jarlaxle did not operate by any of Menzoberranzan's measures, and for the wizard to take such a risk as to threatenJarlaxle...

 Jarlaxle was even more surprised when he realized thatGromph, mighty Gromph Baenre, was beyond nervous. He wastruly scared.

 "I will not even bother to remind you of the value of this 'meddling fool, '" Jarlaxle said.

 "Do spare me. "

 Jarlaxle laughed in his face.

 Gromph brought his hands to his hips, his outer robes openingin front with the movement and revealing a pair of wands set underhis belt, one on each hip.

 "No conspiracy," Jarlaxle said suddenly, firmly.

 "The truth," Gromph remarked in dangerous, low tones.

 "The truth," Jarlaxle replied as straightforwardly as he had everspoken. "I have as much invested in House Baenre as do you, Archmage. If the lesser houses were banding against Baenre, or ifBaenre's daughters plotted her demise, Bregan D'aerthe wouldstand beside her, at least to the point of giving her fair notice of the coming coup. "

 Gromph's expression became very serious. What Jarlaxle noted most was that the elderboy of House Baenre had taken no apparentnotice of his obvious (and intentional) slip in referring to MatronBaenre as merely "Baenre." Errors such as that often cost drow, particularly male drow, their lives.

 "What is it then?" Gromph asked, and the very tone of the question, almost an outright plea, caught Jarlaxle off his guard. Never before had he seen the archmage, or heard of the archmage, in sodesperate a state.

 "You sense it!" Gromph snapped. "There is something wrongabout the very air we breathe!"

 For centuries untold, Jarlaxle silently added, a notion he knewhe would be wise to keep to himself. To Gromph he offered only,"The chapel was damaged. "

 The archmage nodded, his expression turning sour. The great

 domed chapel of House Baenre was the holiest place in the entirecity, the ultimate shrine to Lloth. In perhaps the most terrible slap inthe face the Spider Queen had ever experienced, the renegadeDo'Urden and his friends had, upon their escape, dropped a stalactite from the cavern's roof that punctured the treasured dome like agigantic spear.

 "The Spider Queen is angered," Gromph remarked.

 "I would be," Jarlaxle agreed.

 Gromph snapped an angry glare over the smug mercenary. Notfor any insult he had given Lloth, Jarlaxle understood, but simply because of his flippant attitude.

 When that glare had no more effect than to bring a smile to Jarlaxle's lips, Gromph sprang from his chair and paced like a cageddisplacer beast. The zombie host, unthinking and purely programmed, rushed over, drinks in hand.

 Gromph growled and held his palm upraised, a ball of flamesuddenly appearing atop it. With his other hand Gromph placedsomething small and red—it looked like a scale—into the flame andbegan an ominous chant.

 Jarlaxle watched patiently as Gromph played out his frustration, the mercenary preferring that the wizard aim that retort at thezombie and not at him.

 A lick of flame shot out from Gromph's hand. Lazily, determinedly, like a snake that had already immobilized its prey withpoison, the flame wound about the zombie, which, of course, neither moved nor complained. In mere seconds, the zombie wasengulfed by this serpent of fire. When Gromph casually sat again, the burning thing followed its predetermined course back to standimpassively. It made it back to its station, but soon crumbled, one ofits legs consumed.

 "The smell..."Jarlaxle began, putting a hand over his nose.

 "Is of power!" Gromph finished, his red eyes narrowing, thenostrils of his thin nose flaring. The wizard took a deep breath and basked in the stench.

 "It is not Lloth who fosters the wrongness of the air," Jarlaxlesaid suddenly, wanting to steal the obviously frustrated wizard'sbluster and be done with Gromph and out of this reeking place.

 "What do you know?" Gromph demanded, suddenly very anxious once more.

 "No more than you," Jarlaxle replied. "Lloth is likely angry atDrizzt's escape, and at the damage to the chapel. You above all canappreciate the importance of that chapel." Jarlaxle's sly tone sentGromph's nostrils flaring once more. The mercenary knew he hadhit a sore spot, a weakness in the archmage's armored robes.Gromph had created the pinnacle of the Baenre chapel, a gigantic,shimmering illusion hovering over the central altar. It continually shifted form, going from a beautiful drow female to a huge spider and back again. It was no secret in Menzoberranzan that Gromphwas not the most devout of Lloth's followers, no secret that the creation of the magnificent illusion had spared him his mother'sunmerciful wrath.

 "But there are too many things happening for Lloth to be thesole cause," Jarlaxle went on after savoring the minor victory for a moment. "And too many of them adversely affect Lloth's own baseof power. "

 "A rival deity?" Gromph asked, revealing more intrigue than heintended. "Or an underground revolt?" The wizard sat back suddenly, thinking he had hit upon something, thinking that anyunderground revolt would certainly fall into the domain of a certain rogue mercenary leader.

 But Jarlaxle was in no way cornered, for if either of Gromph'ssuspicions had any basis, Jarlaxle did not know of it.

 "Something," was all the mercenary replied. "Something perhaps very dangerous to us all. For more than a score of years, onehouse or another has, for some reason, overestimated the worth of capturing the renegade Do'Urden, and their very zeal has elevated his stature and multiplied the troubles he has caused. "

 "So you believe all of this is tied to Drizzt's escape," Gromphreasoned.

 "I believe many matron mothers will believe that," Jarlaxle was quick to reply. "And, thus, Drizzt's escape will indeed play a role inwhat is to come. But I have not said, and do not believe, that whatyou sense is amiss is the result of the renegade's flight from HouseBaenre. "

 Gromph closed his eyes and let the logic settle. Jarlaxle was right,of course. Menzoberranzan was a place so wound up in its ownintrigue that truth mattered less than suspicion, that suspicion oftenbecame a self-fulfilling prophecy, and thus, often created truth.

 "I may wish to speak with you again, mercenary," the archmagesaid quietly, and Jarlaxle noticed a door near where he had enteredthe extradimensional pocket. Beside it the zombie still burned, now just a crumpled, blackened ball of almost bare bone.

 Jarlaxle started for the door.

 "Alas," Gromph said dramatically, and Jarlaxle paused. "M'tarldid not survive. "

 "A pity for M'tarl," Jarlaxle added, not wanting Gromph tothink that the loss would in any way wound Bregan D'aerthe.

 Jarlaxle went out the door, down the cord, and slipped away silently into the shadows of the city, trying to digest all that hadoccurred. Rarely had he spoken to Gromph, and even more rarely had Gromph requested, in his own convoluted way, the audience.That fact was significant, Jarlaxle realized. Something very strangewas happening here, a slight tingle in the air. Jarlaxle, a lover ofchaos (mostly because, within the swirl of chaos, he always seemedto come out ahead), was intrigued. What was even more intriguingwas that Gromph, despite his fears and all that he had to lose, wasalso intrigued!

 The archmage's mention of a possible second deity proved that, showed his entire hand. For Gromph was an old wretch, despite thefact that he had come as far in life as any male drow in Menzoberranzan could hope to climb.

 No, not despite that fact, Jarlaxle silently corrected himself.Because of that fact. Gromph was bitter, and had been so for centuries, because, in his lofty view of his own worth, he saw even theposition of archmage as pointless, as a limit imposed by an accidentof gender.

 The greatest weakness in Menzoberranzan was not the rivalryof the various houses, Jarlaxle knew, but the strict matriarchal system imposed by Lloth's followers. Half the drow population wassubjugated merely because they had been born male.

 That was a weakness.

 And subjugation inevitably bred bitterness, even—especially!—in one who had gone as far as Gromph. Because from his loftyperch, the archmage could clearly see how much farther he mightpossibly go if he had been born with a different set of genitals.

 Gromph had indicated he might wish to speak with Jarlaxleagain; Jarlaxle had a feeling he and the bitter mage would indeed

  

 meet, perhaps quite often. He spent the next twenty steps of his walk back across Menzoberranzan wondering what informationGromph might extract from poor M'tarl, for of course the lieutenantwas not dead—though he might soon wish he were.

 Jarlaxle laughed at his own foolishness. He had spoken truly toGromph, of course, and so M'tarl couldn't reveal anything incriminating. The mercenary sighed. He wasn't used to speaking truthfully, wasn't used to walking where there were no webs.

 That notion dismissed, Jarlaxle turned his attention to the city.Something was brewing. Jarlaxle, the ultimate survivor, could sense it, and so could Gromph. Something important would occur all too soon, and what the mercenary needed to do was figure out how hemight profit from it, whatever it might be.

 Chapter 5

 CATTI-BRIE'S CHAMPION

 Drizzt called Guenhwyvar to his side when the companions came down to the lower trails. The panthersat quietly, expecting what was to come.

 "Ye should bring the cat in," Catti-brie suggested,understanding Drizzt's intent. The barbarians, though they hadcome far from their tundra homes and their secluded ways,remained somewhat distrustful of magic, and the sight of the panther always unnerved more than a few of Berkthgar's people, and didn't sit so well with Berkthgar himself.

 "It is enough for them that I will enter their settlement,"Drizzt replied.

 Catti-brie had to nod in agreement. The sight of Drizzt, of adark elf, one of a race noted for magic and evil, was perhaps evenmore unnerving to the Northmen than the panther. "Still, it'dteach Berkthgar good if ye had the cat sit on him for a while," she remarked.

 Drizzt chuckled as he conjured an image of Guenhwyvarstretching comfortably on the back of the large, wriggling man."The folk of Settlestone will grow accustomed to the panther as

 they did to my own presence," the drow replied. "Think of howmany years it took Bruenor to become comfortable around Guenhwyvar. "

 The panther gave a low growl, as if she understood theirevery word.

 "It wasn't the years," Catti-brie returned. "It was the number of times Guen pulled me stubborn father's backside out of a hotfire!"

 When Guenhwyvar growled again, both Drizzt and Catti-briehad a good laugh at surly Bruenor's expense. The mirth subsidedas Drizzt took out the figurine and bade Guenhwyvar farewell, promising to call the panther back as soon as he and Catti-briewere on the trails once more, heading back to Mithril Hall.

 The formidable panther, growling low, walked in circles aboutthe figurine. Gradually those growls diminished as Guenhwyvarfaded into gray mist, then into nothing at all.

 Drizzt scooped up the figurine and looked to the plumes ofsmoke rising from nearby Settlestone. "Are you ready?" he askedhis companion.

 "He'll be a stubborn one," Catti-brie admitted.

 "We just have to get Berkthgar to understand the depth ofBruenor's distress," Drizzt offered, starting off again for the town.

 "We just have to get Berkthgar to imagine Bruenor's axesweeping in for the bridge of his nose," Catti-brie muttered."Right between the eyes. "

 Settlestone was a rocky, windswept cluster of stone houses setin a vale and protected on three sides by the climbing, brokensides of the towering mountains known as the Spine of the World.The rock structures, resembling houses of cards against the backdrop of the gigantic mountains, had been built by the dwarves ofMithril Hall, by Bruenor's ancestors, hundreds of years before,when the place had been called Dwarvendarrow. It had been usedas a trading post by Bruenor's people and was the only place formerchants to peek at the wonders that came from Mithril Hall, forthe dwarves did not wish to entertain foreigners in their secretmines.

 Even one who did not know the history of Dwarvendarrowwould reason that this place had been constructed by the beardedfolk. Only dwarves could have imbued the rocks with such

 strength, for, though the settlement had been uninhabited for centuries, and though the wind sweeping down the channel of thetall mountain walls was unrelenting, the structures had remained. In setting the place up for their own use, Wulfgar's people had nomore a task than to brace an occasional wall, sweep out the tons ofpebbles that had half buried some of the houses, and flush out theanimals that had come to live there.

 So it was a trading post again, looking much as it had in theheyday of Mithril Hall, but now called Settlestone and now usedby humans working as agents for the busy dwarves. The agreement seemed sound and profitable to both parties, but Berkthgar had no idea of how tentative things had suddenly become. If hedid not relent on his demand to carry Aegis-fang, both Drizzt and Catti-brie knew, Bruenor would likely order the barbarian and hispeople off the land.

 The proud barbarians would never follow such a command,of course. The land had been granted, not loaned.

 The prospect of war, of Bruenor's people coming down fromthe mountains and driving the barbarians away, was not so outlandish.

 All because of Aegis-fang.

 "Wulfgar would not be so glad to know the source of thearguing," Catti-brie remarked as she and Drizzt neared the settlement. " 'Twas he who bringed them all together. Seems a pityindeed that it's his memory threatening to tear them apart. "

 A pity and a terrible irony, Drizzt silently agreed. His steps became more determined; put in that light, this diplomatic mission took on even greater significance. Suddenly Drizzt wasmarching to Settlestone for much more than a petty squabblebetween two unyielding rulers. The drow was going for Wulfgar's honor.

 As they came down to the valley floor, they heard chanting, arhythmic, solemn recitation of the deeds of a legendary warrior.They crossed into the empty ways, past the open house doors thatthe hardy folk never bothered to secure. Both knew where thechanting was coming from, and both knew where they wouldfind the men and women and children of Settlestone.

 The only addition the barbarian settlers had made to the townwas a large structure that could fit all four hundred people of

 Settlestone and a like number of visitors. Hengorot, "the Mead Hall," it was called. It was a solemn place of worship, of valorrecalled, and ultimately of sharing food and drink.

 Hengorot wasn't finished. Half its long, low walls were ofstone, but the rest was enclosed by deerskin canopies. That factseemed fitting to Drizzt, seemed to reflect how far Wulfgar's peo ple had come, and how far they had to go. When they had livedon the tundra of Icewind Dale, they had been nomadic, followingthe reindeer herd, so all their houses had been of skin, whichcould be packed up and taken with the wandering tribe.

 No longer were the hardy folk nomads; no longer was theirexistence dependent on the reindeer herd. It was an unreliable source that often led to warring between the various tribes, orwith the folk of Ten-Towns, on the three lakes, the only non-barbarians in Icewind Dale.

 Drizzt was glad to see the level of peace and harmony that thenorthmen had attained, but still it pained him to look at theuncompleted part of Hengorot, to view the skins and remember,too, the sacrifices these people had made. Their way of life, whichhad survived for thousands of years, was no more. Looking at thisconstruction of Hengorot, a mere shade of the glories the meadhall had known, looking at the stone that now enclosed this proudpeople, the drow could not help but wonder if this way was indeed "progress. "

 Catti-brie, who had lived most of her young life in Icewind Dale, and who had heard countless tales of the nomadic barbarians, had understood the loss all along. In coming to Settlestone,the barbarians had given away a measure of their freedom andmore than a bit of their heritage. They were richer now, far richerthan they could have ever dreamt, and no longer would a harsh winter threaten their very existence. But there had been a price. Like the stars. The stars were different here beside the mountains.They didn't come down to the flat horizon, drawing a person'ssoul into the heavens.

 With a resigned sigh, a bit of her own homesickness forIcewind Dale, Catti-brie reminded herself of the pressing situation. She knew that Berkthgar was being stubborn, but knew, too,how pained the barbarian leader was over Wulfgar's fall, andhow pained he must be to think that a dwarf held the key to the

 warhammer that had become the most honored weapon in histribe's history.

 Never mind that the dwarf had been the one to forge thatweapon; never mind that the man who had carried it to suchglory had, in fact, been like that dwarf's son. To Berkthgar, Catti-brie knew, the lost hero was not the son of Bruenor, but was Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, of the Tribe of the Elk. Wulfgar of IcewindDale, not of Mithril Hall. Wulfgar, who epitomized all that hadbeen respected and treasured among the barbarian people. Perhaps most of all, Catti-brie appreciated the gravity of the taskbefore them.

 Two tall, broad-shouldered guards flanked the skin flap of themead hall's opening, their beards and breath smelling more thana little of thick mead. They bristled at first, then moved hastilyaside when they recognized the visitors. One rushed to the closestend of the long table set in the hall's center to announce Drizztand Catti-brie, listing their known feats and their heritage (Catti-brie's at least, for Drizzt's heritage would not be a source of gloryin Settlestone).

 Drizzt and Catti-brie waited patiently at the door with theother man, who easily outweighed the two of them put together.Both of them focused on Berkthgar, seated halfway down the table's right-hand side, and he inevitably looked past the manannouncing the visitors to stare back at them.

 Catti-brie thought the man a fool in his argument with Bruenor, but neither she nor Drizzt could help but be impressed by thegiant barbarian. He was nearly as tall as Wulfgar, fully six and ahalf towering feet, with broad shoulders and hardened arms thesize of a fat dwarf's thighs. His brown hair was shaggy, hanginglow over his shoulders, and he was beginning a beard for winter, the thick tufts on his neck and cheeks making him appear all themore fierce and imposing. Settlestone's leaders were picked incontests of strength, in matches of fierce battle, as the barbarianshad selected their leaders through their history. No man in Settle-stone could defeat Berkthgar—Berkthgar the Bold, he wascalled—and yet, because of that fact, he lived, more than any ofthe others, in the shadow of a dead man who had become legend.

 "Pray, join us!" Berkthgar greeted warmly, but the set of hisexpression told the two companions that he had been expecting

  

 this visit, and was not so thrilled to see them. The chieftainfocused particularly on Drizzt, and Catti-brie read both eagernessand trepidation in the large man's sky-blue eyes.

 Stools were offered to Drizzt and Catti-brie (a high honor forCatti-brie, for no other woman was seated at the table, unlessupon the lap of a suitor). In Hengorot, and in all this society, the women and children, save for the older male children, were servants. They hustled now, placing mugs of mead before the newest guests.

 Both Drizzt and Catti-brie eyed the drinks suspiciously,knowing they had to keep their heads perfectly clear, but whenBerkthgar offered a toast to them and held his own mug high, custom demanded they likewise salute. And in Hengorot, one simplydid not sip mead!

 Both friends downed their mugs to rousing cheers, and bothlooked to each other despairingly as another full mug quicklyreplaced the emptied one.

 Unexpectedly, Drizzt rose and deftly hopped up on the longtable.

 "My greetings to the men and women of Settlestone, to thepeople of Berkthgar the Bold!" he began, and a chorus of deafening cheers went up, roars for Berkthgar, the focus of the town'spride. The huge, shaggy-haired man got slapped on the back ahundred times in the next minute, but not once did he blink, andnot once did he take his suspicious gaze from the dark elf.

 Catti-brie understood what was going on here. The barbarianshad come to grudgingly accept Drizzt, but still he was a scrawnyelf, and a dark elf on top of it all! The paradox was more than a little uncomfortable for them. They saw Drizzt as weak—probablyno stronger than some of their hardy womenfolk—and yet theyrealized that not one of them could defeat the drow in combat.Berkthgar was the most uncomfortable of all, for he knew whyDrizzt and Catti-brie had come, and he suspected this issue aboutthe hammer would be settled between him and Drizzt.

 "Truly we are grateful, nay, thrilled, at your hospitality. None in all the Realms can set a table more inviting!" Again the cheers.Drizzt was playing them well, and it didn't hurt that more thanhalf of them were falling-down drunk.

 "But we cannot remain for long," Drizzt said, his voice

  

 suddenly solemn. The effect on those seated near the drow was stunning, as they seemed to sober immediately, seemed to suddenly grasp the weight of the drow's visit.

 Catti-brie saw the sparkle of the ruby pendant hanging aboutDrizzt's neck, and she understood that though Drizzt wasn'tactively using the enchanting gem, its mere presence was asintoxicating as any amount of thick mead.

 "The heavy sword of war hangs over us all," Drizzt went ongravely. "This is the time of allian—"

 Berkthgar abruptly ended the drow's speech by slamming hismug on the table so brutally that it shattered, splattering thosenearby with golden-brown mead and glass fragments. Still holding the mug's handle, the barbarian leader unsteadily clamberedatop the table to tower over the dark elf.

 In the blink of an eye, Hengorot hushed.

 "You come here claiming alliance," the barbarian leaderbegan slowly. "You come asking for alliance." He paused andlooked around at his anxious people for dramatic effect. "And yetyou hold prisoner the weapon that has become a symbol of mypeople, a weapon brought to glory by Wulfgar, son of Beornegar!"

 Thunderous cheers erupted, and Catti-brie looked up toDrizzt and shrugged helplessly. She always hated it when the barbarians referred to Wulfgar by his legacy, as the son of Beornegar.For them to do so was an item of pride, and pride alone never sat well with the pragmatic woman.

 Besides, Wulfgar needed no claim of lineage to heighten hisshort life's achievements. His children, had he sired any, wouldhave been the ones to rightfully speak of their father.

 "We are friends of the dwarf king you serve, dark elf," Berkthgar went on, his booming voice resonating off the stone sectionsof Hengorot's walls. "And we ask the same of Bruenor Battle-hammer, son of Bangor, son of Garumn. You shall have youralliance, but not until Aegis-fang is delivered to me.

 "I am Berkthgar!" the barbarian leader bellowed.

 "Berkthgar the Bold!" several of the man's advisors quicklypiped in, and another chorus went up, a toast of mugs lifted highto the mighty chieftain of Settlestone.

 "Bruenor would sooner deliver his own axe," Drizzt replied,thoroughly fed up with Berkthgar's glories. The drow understood

 then that he and Catti-brie had been expected in Settlestone, forBerkthgar's little speech, and the reaction to it, had been carefullyplanned, even rehearsed.

 "And I do not think you would enjoy the way he woulddeliver that axe," the drow finished quietly, when the roaring haddied away. Again came the hush of expectation, for the drow's words could be taken as a challenge, and Berkthgar, blue eyes squinting dangerously, seemed more than ready to pick up thegauntlet.

 "But Bruenor is not here," the barbarian leader said evenly."Will Drizzt Do'Urden champion his cause?"

 Drizzt straightened, trying to decide the best course.

 Catti-brie's mind, too, was working fast. She held little doubtthat Drizzt would accept the challenge and put Berkthgar down atonce, and the men of Settlestone surely would not tolerate thatkind of embarrassment.

 "Wulfgar was to be my husband!" she yelled, rising from herchair just as Drizzt was about to respond. "And I am the daughterof Bruenor—by rights, the princess of Mithril Hall. If anyone hereis to champion my father's cause—"

 "You will name him," Berkthgar reasoned.

 "I willbe... her," Catti-brie replied grimly.

 Roars went up again, all about the mead hall, and more than afew women at the back of the room tittered and nodded hopefully.

 Drizzt didn't seem so pleased, and the look he put over Catti-brie was purely plaintive, begging her to calm this situationbefore things got fully out of hand. He didn't want a fight at all.Neither did Catti-brie, but the room was in a frenzy then, withmore than half the voices crying for Berkthgar to "Fight thewoman!" as though Catti-brie's challenge had already beenlaunched.

 The look that Berkthgar put over Catti-brie was one of pureoutrage.

 She understood and sympathized with his predicament. Shehad meant to go on and explain that she would be Bruenor's onlychampion, if there was to be a champion, but that she had notcome here to fight. Events had swept her past that point, however.

 "Never!" Berkthgar roared above the din, and the room

 calmed somewhat, eager cries dying away to whispers. "Neverhave I battled a woman!"

 That's an attitude Berkthgar had better overcome soon, Drizztthought, for if the dark elves were indeed marching to MithrilHall, there would be little room for such inhibitions. Femaleswere typically the strongest of drow warriors, both magically andwith weapons.

 "Fight her!" cried one man, obviously very drunk, and he waslaughing as he called, and so, too, were his fellows about him.

 Berkthgar looked from the man to Catti-brie, his huge chestheaving as he tried to take in deep breaths to calm his rage.

 He could not win, Catti-brie realized. If they fought, he could not win, even if he battered her. To the hardy men of Settlestone,even lifting a weapon against her would be considered cowardly.

 Catti-brie climbed onto the table and gave a slight nod as shepassed in front of Drizzt. Hands on hips—and her hip out to theside to accentuate her feminine figure—she gave a wistful smileto the barbarian leader. "Not with weapons, perhaps," she said."But there are other ways a man and woman might compete. "

 All the room exploded at that comment. Mugs were lifted soforcefully in toast that little mead remained in them as they cameback down to the eager mouths of the men. Several in the backend of Hengorot took up a lewd song, clapping each other on theback at every crescendo.

 Drizzt's lavender eyes grew so wide that they seemed as ifthey would simply roll out of their sockets. When Catti-brie tookthe moment to regard him, she feared he would draw his weapons and kill everyone in the room. For an instant, she was flattered, but that quickly passed, replaced by disappointment thatthe drow would think so little of her.

 She gave him a look that said just that as she turned andjumped down from the table. A man nearby reached out to catchher, but she slapped his hands away and strode defiantly for thedoor.

 "There's fire in that one!" she heard behind her.

 "Alas for poor Berkthgar!" came another rowdy cry.

 On the table, the stunned barbarian leader turned this wayand that, purposely avoiding the dark elf's gaze. Berkthgar was ata loss; Bruenor's daughter, though a famed adventurer, was not

 known for such antics. But Berkthgar was also more than a littleintrigued. Every man in Settlestone considered Catti-brie, theprincess of Mithril Hall, the fairest prize in all the region.

 "Aegis-fang will be mine!" Berkthgar finally cried, and theroar behind him, and all about him, was deafening.

 The barbarian leader was relieved to see that Drizzt was nolonger facing him, was no longer anywhere in sight, when heturned back. One great leap had taken the dark elf from the table, and he strode eagerly for the door.

 Outside Hengorot, in a quiet spot near an empty house,Drizzt took Catti-brie by the arm and turned her to face him. Sheexpected him to shout at her, even expected him to slap her.

 He laughed at her instead.

 "Clever," Drizzt congratulated. "But can you take him?"

 "How do ye know that I did not mean what I said?" Catti-briesnapped in reply.

 "Because you have more respect for yourself than that,"Drizzt answered without hesitation.

 It was the perfect answer, the one Catti-brie needed to hearfrom her friend, and she did not press the point further.

 "But can you take him?" the drow asked again, seriously.Catti-brie was good, and getting better with every lesson, butBerkthgar was huge and tremendously strong.

 "He's drunk," Catti-brie replied. "And he's slow, like Wulfgarwas before ye showed him the better way o' fighting." Her blueeyes, rich as the sky just before the dawn, sparkled. "Like yeshowed me. "

 Drizzt patted her on the shoulder lightly, understanding thenthat this fight would be as important to her as it was to Berkthgar.The barbarian came storming out of the tent then, leaving a hordeof sputtering comrades leering out of the open flap.

 "Taking him won't be half the trouble as figuring out how tolet him keep his honor," Catti-brie whispered.

 Drizzt nodded and patted her shoulder again, then walkedaway, going in a wide circuit about Berkthgar and back towardthe tent. Catti-brie had taken things into hand, he decided, and heowed her the respect to let her see this through.

 The barbarians fell back as the drow came into the tent andpointedly closed the flap, taking one last look at Catti-brie as he

  

 did, to see her walking side by side with Berkthgar (and he soresembled huge Wulfgar from the back!) down the windsweptlane.

 For Drizzt Do'Urden, the image was not a pleasant one.

 *****

 "Ye're not surprised?" Catti-brie asked as she removed thepractice padding from her backpack and began sliding it over thefine edge of her sword. She felt a twinge of emotion as she did so,a sudden feeling of disappointment, even anger, which she didnot understand.

 "I did not believe for a moment that you had brought me outhere for the reason you hinted at," Berkthgar replied casually."Though if you had—"

 "Shut yer mouth," Catti-brie sharply interrupted.

 Berkthgar's jaw went firm. He was not accustomed to beingtalked to in that manner, particularly not from a woman. "We ofSettlestone do not cover our blades when we fight," he said boastfully.

 Catti-brie returned the barbarian leader's determined look, and as she did, she slid the sword back out from its protective sheath. A sudden rush of elation washed over her. As with theearlier feeling, she did not understand it, and so she thought thatperhaps her anger toward Berkthgar was more profound than shehad dared to admit to herself.

 Berkthgar walked away then, to his house, and soon returnedwearing a smug smile and a sheath strapped across his back.Above his right shoulder Catti-brie could see the hilt and cross-piece of his sword—a crosspiece nearly as long as her entireblade!—and the bottom portion of the sheath poked out belowBerkthgar's left hip, extending almost to the ground.

 Catti-brie watched, awestruck, wondering what she had gotten herself into, as Berkthgar solemnly drew the sword to theextent of his arm. The sheath had been cut along its upper sideafter a foot of leather so that the barbarian could then extract thegigantic blade.

 And gigantic indeed was Berkthgar's flamberge! Its wavyblade extended over four feet, and after that came an eight-inch

 ricasso between the formal crosspiece and a second, smaller oneof edged steel.

 With one arm, muscles standing taut in ironlike cords, Berkthgar began spinning the blade, creating a great "whooshing"sound in the air above his head. Then he brought its tip to theground before him and rested his arm on the crosspiece, whichwas about shoulder height to his six-and-a-half-foot frame.

 "Ye meaning to fight with that, or kill fatted cows?" Catti-brieasked, trying hard to steal some of the man's mounting pride.

 "I would still allow you to choose the other contest," Berkthgar replied calmly.

 Catti-brie's sword snapped out in front of her, at the ready,and she went down in a low, defensive crouch.

 The barbarian hooted and went into a similar pose, but thenstraightened, looking perplexed. "I cannot," Berkthgar began. "If I were to strike you even a glancing blow, King Battlehammer'sheart would break as surely as would your skull. "

 Catti-brie came forward suddenly, jabbing at Berkthgar'sshoulder and tearing a line in his furred jerkin.

 He looked down at the cut, then his eyes came slowly back toregard Catti-brie, but other than that, he made no move.

 "Ye're just afraid because ye're knowing that ye can't movethat cow-killer fast enough," the young woman taunted.

 Berkthgar blinked very slowly, exaggerated the movement asif to show how boring he thought this whole affair was. "I willshow you the mantle where Bankenfuere is kept," he said. "And Iwill show you the bedding before the mantle. "

 "The thing's better for a mantle than a swordsman's hands!"Catti-brie growled, tired of this one's juvenile sexual references.She sprang ahead again and slapped the flat of her blade hardagainst Berkthgar's cheek, then jumped back, still snarling. "Ifye're afraid, then admit it!"

 Berkthgar's hand went immediately to his wound, and whenit came away, the barbarian saw that his fingers were red with blood. Catti-brie winced at that, for she hadn't meant to hit himquite so hard.

 Subtle were the intrusions of Khazid'hea.

 "I am out of patience with you, foolish woman," snarled thebarbarian, and up came the tip of tremendous Bankenfuere, the

 Northern Fury.

 Berkthgar growled and leaped ahead, both hands on the hilt this time as he swung the huge blade across in front of him. Heattacked with the flat of his blade, as had Catti-brie, but the youngwoman realized that would hardly matter. Getting hit by the flatof that tremendous flamberge would still reduce her bones tomush!

 Catti-brie wasn't anywhere near Berkthgar at that point, thewoman in fast retreat (and wondering again if she was in over herhead) as soon as the sword went up. The flamberge curled in anarc back over, left to right, then came across a second time, this cutangling down. Faster than Catti-brie expected, Berkthgar reversed the flow, the blade swishing horizontally again, this time left toright, then settled back at the ready beside the barbarian's muscular shoulder.

 An impressive display indeed, but Catti-brie had watched theroutine carefully, no longer through awestruck eyes, and shenoticed more than a few holes in the barbarian's defenses.

 Of course, she had to be perfect in her timing. One slip, andBankenfuere would turn her into worm food.

 On came Berkthgar, with another horizontal cut, a predictableattack, for there were only so many ways one could maneuversuch a weapon! Catti-brie fell back a step, then an extra step justto make sure, and darted in behind the lumbering sweep of theblade, looking to score a hit on the barbarian's arm. Berkthgarwas quicker than that, though, and he had the blade comingaround and over so fast that Catti-brie had to abort the attack and scramble hard just to get out of the way.

 Still, she had won that pass, she figured, for now she had abetter measure of Berkthgar's reach. And by her thinking, everypassing moment favored her, for she saw the sweat beading on the drunken barbarian's forehead, his great chest heaving just abit more than before.

 "If ye do other things as poorly as ye fight, then suren I'mglad I chose this contest," Catti-brie said, a taunt that sent proud Berkthgar into another wild-swinging tirade.

 Catti-brie dodged and scrambled as Bankenfuere came acrossin several titanic, and ultimately futile, swipes. Across it cameagain, the barbarian's fury far from played out, and Catti-brie

 leaped back. Around and over went the blade, Berkthgar chargingahead, and Catti-brie went far out to the side, just ahead as thegreat sword came whipping down and across.

 "I shall catch up to you soon enough!" Berkthgar promised,turning square to the young woman and whipping his mightyblade left to right once more, bringing it to the ready beside hisright shoulder.

 Catti-brie started in behind the cut, taking a long stride withher right foot, extending her sword arm toward Berkthgar's exposed hip. She dug her left foot in solidly, though, and had no intention of continuing the move. As soon as Bankenfuere cameacross to intercept, Catti-brie leaped back, pivoted on her anchorleg, and rushed in behind the blade, going for Berkthgar's righthip instead, and scored a nasty, stinging hit.

 The barbarian growled and spun so forcefully that he nearlyoverbalanced.

 Catti-brie stood a few feet away, crouched low, ready. Therewas no doubt that swinging the heavy weapon was beginning to take a toll on the man, especially after his generous swallows of mead.

 "A few more passes," Catti-brie whispered, forcing herself tobe patient.

 And so she played on as the minutes passed, as Berkthgar'sbreathing came as loudly as the moaning wind. Through eachattack, Catti-brie confirmed her final routine, one that tookadvantage of the fact that Berkthgar's huge blade and thick armsmade a perfect optical barricade.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Drizzt suffered through the half-hour of rude comments.

 "Never has he lasted this long!" offered one barbarian.

 "Berkthgar the Brauzen!" cried another, the barbarian wordfor stamina.

 "Brauzen!" all the rowdy men shouted together, lifting their mugs in cheer. Some of the women in the back of Hengorot tittered at the bawdy display, but most wore sour expressions.

 "Brauzen," the drow whispered, and Drizzt thought the wordperfectly fitting for describing his own patience during those

 insufferably long minutes. As angry as he was at the rude jokes atCatti-brie's expense, he was more fearful that Berkthgar wouldharm her, perhaps defeat her in battle and then take her in otherways.

 Drizzt worked hard to keep his imagination at bay. For all his boasting, for all of his people's boasting, Berkthgar was an honorable man. But he was drunk...

 I will kill him, Drizzt decided, and if anything the drowfeared had come to pass, he indeed would cut mighty Berkthgardown.

 It never got to that point, though, for Berkthgar and Catti-briewalked back into the tent, looking a bit ruffled, the barbarian's stubbly beard darkened in one area with some dried blood, butotherwise seeming okay.

 Catti-brie winked subtly as she passed the drow.

 Hengorot fell into a hush, the drunken men no doubt expecting some lewd tales of their leader's exploits.

 Berkthgar looked to Catti-brie, and she wouldn't blink.

 "I will not carry Aegis-fang," the barbarian leader announced.

 Moans and hoots erupted, as did speculation about who won the "contest. "

 Berkthgar blushed, and Drizzt feared there would be trouble.

 Catti-brie went up on the table. "Not a better man in Settle-stone!" she insisted.

 Several barbarians rushed forward to the table's edge, willing to take up that challenge.

 "Not a better man!" Catti-brie growled at them, her furydriving them back.

 "I'll not carry the warhammer, in honor of Wulfgar," Berkthgar explained. "And for the honor of Catti-brie. "

 Blank stares came back at him.

 "If I am to properly suit the daughter of King Bruenor, ourfriend and ally," the barbarian leader went on, and Drizzt smiledat that reference, "then it is my own weapon, Bankenfuere, thatmust become legend." He held high the huge flamberge, and thecrowd roared with glee.

 The issue was ended, the alliance sealed, and more mead waspassed about before Catti-brie even got down from the table,heading for Drizzt. She stopped as she walked beside the barbar-

  

 ian leader, and gave him a sly look.

 "If ye ever openly lie," she whispered, taking care that no onecould hear, "or if ye ever even hint that ye bedded me, then beknowin' that I'll come back and cut ye down in front o' all yerpeople. "

 Berkthgar's expression grew somber at that, and even moresomber as he turned to watch Catti-brie depart, to see her deadly drow friend standing easily, hands on scimitar hilts, his lavendereyes telling the barbarian in no uncertain terms his feelings forCatti-brie. Berkthgar didn't want to tangle with Catti-brie again,but he would rather battle her a hundred times than fight thedrow ranger.

 "You'll come back and cut him down?" Drizzt asked as theyexited the town, revealing to Catti-brie that his keen ears hadcaught her parting words with the barbarian.

 "Not a promise I'd ever want to try," Catti-brie replied, shaking her head. "Fighting that one when he's not so full o' meadwould be about the same as walking into the cave of a restlessbear. "

 Drizzt stopped abruptly, and Catti-brie, after taking a couple more steps, turned about to regard him.

 He stood pointing at her, smiling widely. "I have done that!" he remarked, and so Drizzt had yet another tale to recount as thetwo (and then three, for Drizzt was quick to recall Guenhwyvar)made their way along the trails, back into the mountains.

 Later, as the stars twinkled brightly and the campfire burnedlow, Drizzt sat watching Catti-brie's prone form, her rhythmicbreathing telling the drow that she was fast asleep.

 "You know I love her," the drow said to Guenhwyvar.

 The panther blinked her shining green eyes, but otherwise didnot move.

 "Yet, how could I?" Drizzt asked. "And not for the memory ofWulfgar," he quickly added, and he nodded as he heard himselfspeak the words, knowing that Wulfgar, who loved Drizzt asDrizzt loved him, would not disapprove.

 "How could I ever?" the drow reiterated, his voice barely awhisper.

 Guenhwyvar issued a long, low growl, but if it had any meaning, other than to convey that the panther was interested in what

 the drow was saying, it was lost on Drizzt.

 "She will not live so long," Drizzt went on quietly. "I will still be a young drow when she is gone." Drizzt looked from Catti-brieto the panther, and a new insight occurred to him. "You mustunderstand such things, my eternal friend," the drow said."Where will I fall in the span of your life? How many others haveyou kept as you keep me, my Guenhwyvar, and how many moreshall there be?"

 Drizzt rested his back against the mountain wall and lookedto Catti-brie, then up to the stars. Sad were his thoughts, and yet,in many ways, they were comforting, like an eternal play, likeemotions shared, like memories of Wulfgar. Drizzt sent thosethoughts skyward, into the heavenly canopy, letting them breakapart on the ceaseless and mournful wind.

 His dreams were full of images of friends, of Zaknafein, hisfather, of Belwar, the svirfneblin gnome, of Captain Deudermont,of the good shipSea Sprite, of Regis and Bruenor, of Wulfgar, andmost of all, of Catti-brie.

 It was as calm and pleasant a sleep as Drizzt Do'Urden hadever known.

 Guenhwyvar watched the drow for some time, then rested her great feline head on wide paws and closed her green eyes.Drizzt's comments had hit the mark, except, of course, his intimation that her memory of him would be inconsequential in the centuries ahead. Guenhwyvar had indeed come to the call of manymasters, most goodly, some wicked, in the past millennium, andeven beyond that. Some the panther remembered, some not, butDrizzt...

 Forever would Guenhwyvar remember the renegade dark elf, whose heart was so strong and so good and whose loyalty was noless than the panther's own.

 Part 2

 THE ONSET OF CHAOS

 Forever after, the bards of the Realms called it the Time ofTroubles, the time when the gods were kicked out of the heavens, their avatars walking among the mortals. The time whenthe Tablets of Fate were stolen, invoking the wrath of Ao, Overlord of the Gods, when magic went awry, and when, as a consequence, socialand religious hierarchies, so often based on magical strength, fell into chaos.

 I have heard many tales from fanatical priests of their encounters withtheir particular avatars, frenzied stories from men and women who claim to have looked upon their deities. So many others came to convert to a religionduring this troubled time, likewise claiming they had seen the light and thetruth, however convoluted it might be.

 I do not disagree with the claims, and would not openly attack thepremise of their encounters. I am glad for those who have found enrichmentamidst the chaos; I am glad whenever another person finds the contentmentof spiritual guidance.

 But what of faith?

 What of fidelity and loyalty? Complete trust? Faith is not granted bytangible proof. It comes from the heart and the soul. If a person needs proofof a god's existence, then the very notion of spirituality is diminished intosensuality and we have reduced what is holy into what is logical.

 I have touched the unicorn, so rare and so precious, the symbol of the goddess Mielikki, who holds my heart and soul. This was before the onset of theTime of Troubles, yet were I of a like mind to those who make the claims of viewing avatars, I could say the same. I could say that I have touched Mielikki, thatshe came to me in a magical glade in the mountains near Dead Orc Pass.

 The unicorn was not Mielikki, and yet it was, as is the sunrise and theseasons, as are the birds and the squirrels and the strength of a tree that haslived through the dawn and death of centuries. As are the leaves, blowing on autumn winds and the snow piling deep in cold mountain vales. As are

 the smell of a crisp night, the twinkle of the starry canopy, and the howl of a distant wolf.

 No, I'll not argue openly against one who has claimed to have seen anavatar, because that person will not understand that the mere presence ofsuch a being undermines the very purpose of, and value of, faith. Because ifthe true gods were so tangible and so accessible, then we would no longerbe independent creatures set on a journey to find the truth, but merely aherd of sheep needing the guidance of a shepherd and his dogs, unthinkingand without the essence of faith.

 The guidance is there, I know. Not in such a tangible form, but in whatwe know to be good and just. It is our own reactions to the acts of othersthat show us the value of our own actions, and if we have fallen so far as to need an avatar, an undeniable manifestation of a god, to show us our way, then we are pitiful creatures indeed.

 The Time of Troubles? Yes. And even more so if we are to believe the suggestion of avatars, because truth is singular and cannot, by definition,support so many varied, even opposing manifestations.

 The unicorn was not Mielikki, and yet it was, for I have touchedMielikki. Not as an avatar, or as a unicorn, but as a way of viewing myplace in the world. Mielikki is my heart. I follow her precepts because, were I to write precepts based on my own conscience, they would be the same. Ifollow Mielikki because she represents what I call truth.

 Such is the case for most of the followers of most of the various gods,and if we looked more closely at the pantheon of the Realms, we would realize that the precepts of the "goodly" gods are not so different; it is theworldly interpretations of those precepts that vary from faith to faith.

 As for the other gods, the gods of strife and chaos, such as Lloth, theSpider Queen, who possesses the hearts of those priestesses who rule Menzoberranzan...

 They are not worth mentioning. There is no truth, only worldly gain,and any religion based on such principles is, in fact, no more than a practice of self-indulgence and in no way a measure of spirituality. In worldlyterms, the priestesses of the Spider Queen are quite formidable; in spiritual terms, they are empty. Thus, their lives are without love and without joy.

 So tell me not of avatars. Show me not your proof that yours is the truegod. I grant you your beliefs without question and without judgment, but ifyou grant me what is in my heart, then such tangible evidence is irrelevant.

 —Drizzt Do'Urden

 Chapter 6

 WHEN MAGIC WENT AWRY

 Berg'inyon Baenre, weapon master of the first house of Menzoberranzan, put his twin swords through a dizzying routine, blades spinning circuits in the air between him and hisopponent, an insubordinate drow common soldier.A crowd of the Baenre house guard, highly trained though mostlymales, formed a semicircle about the pair, while other dark elveswatched from high perches, tightly saddled astride sticky-footed,huge subterranean lizards, the beasts casually standing along the vertical slopes of nearby stalactites or towering stalagmite mounds.

 The soldiers cheered every time Berg'inyon, a magnificentswordsman (though few thought him as good as his brother,Dantrag, had been), scored a minor hit or parried a fast-flyingcounter, but the cheers were obviously somewhat tempered.

 Berg'inyon noticed this, and knew the source. He had been theleader of the Baenre lizard riders, the most elite grouping of the male house guards, for many years. Now, with Dantrag slain, hehad become the house weapon master as well. Berg'inyon felt the intense pressure of his dual stations, felt his mother's scrutinizinggaze on his every movement and every decision. He did not doubt

  

 that his own actions had intensified as a result. How many fightshad he begun, how many punishments had he exacted on his subordinates, since Dantrag's death?

 The common drow came ahead with a weak thrust that almostslipped past distracted Berg'inyon's defenses. A sword came up andabout at the last moment to drive the enemy's blade aside.

 Berg'inyon heard the sudden hush behind him at the near miss,understood that several of the soldiers back there—perhaps all ofthem—hoped his enemy's next thrust would be quicker, too quick.

 The weapon master growled low and came ahead in a flurry,spurred on by the hatred of those around him, of those under hiscommand. Let them hate him! he decided. But while they did, theymust also respect him—no, not respect, Berg'inyon decided. Theymust fear him.

 He came forward one step, then a second, his swords snappingalternately, left and right, and each being cleanly picked off. Thegive and take had become common, with Berg'inyon coming aheadtwo steps, then retreating. This time, though, the Baenre did notretreat. He shuffled forward two more steps, his swords snapping ashis opponent's blades rushed for the parry.

 Berg'inyon had the lesser drow up on his heels, so the youngBaenre rushed ahead again. His opponent was quick enough withhis swords to turn the expected thrusts, but he could not retreatproperly, and Berg'inyon was up against him in a clinch, theirblades joined to either side, down low, by the hilt.

 There was no real danger here—it was more like a break in the battle—but Berg'inyon realized something his opponent apparentlydid not. With a growl, the young Baenre heaved his off-balanceopponent away. The drow skidded back a couple of steps, broughthis swords up immediately to fend off any pursuit.

 None came; it seemed a simple break of the clinch.

 Then the backpedaling drow bumped into the House Baenre fence.

 In the city of Menzoberranzan, there was perhaps nothing as spectacular as the twenty-foot-high, web-designed fence ringingHouse Baenre, anchored on the various stalagmite mounds thatringed the compound. Its silvery metallic cords, thick as a dark elf'sleg, were wound into beautiful, symmetrical designs, as intricate as the work of any spider. No weapon could cut through it, no magic,save a single item that Matron Baenre possessed, could get one over

 it, and the simplest touch or brush against one of those enchantedstrands would hold fast a titan.

 Berg'inyon's opponent hit the fence hard with the flat of hisback. His eyes went wide as he suddenly realized the youngBaenre's tactics, as he saw the faces of those gathered brighten inapproval of the vicious trick, as he saw devious and wickedBerg'inyon calmly approach.

 The drow fell away from the fence and rushed out to meet the weapon master's advance.

 The two went through a fast series of attacks and parries, withstunned Berg'inyon on the defensive. Only through his years ofsuperior training was the drow noble able to bring himself backeven against his surprising opponent.

 Surprising indeed, as every drow face, and all the whispers,confirmed.

 "You brushed the fence," Berg'inyon said.

 The drow soldier did not disagree. The tips of his weaponsdrooped as Berg'inyon's drooped, and he glanced over his shoulderto confirm what he, and all the others, knew could not be.

 "You hit the fence," Berg'inyon said again, skeptically, as thedrow turned back to face him.

 "Across the back," he agreed.

 Berg'inyon's swords went into their respective scabbards andthe young Baenre stormed past his opponent, to stand right beforethe enchanted web. His opponent and all the other dark elves followed closely, too intrigued to even think of continuing the fight.

 Berg'inyon motioned to a nearby female. "Rest your swordagainst it," he bade her.

 The female drew her blade and laid it across one of the thickstrands. She looked to Berg'inyon and around to all the others, then easily lifted the blade from the fence.

 Another drow farther down the line dared to place his hand on the web. Those around him looked at him incredulously, thinkinghim dangerously daring, but he had no trouble removing himselffrom the metal.

 Panic rushed through Berg'inyon. The fence, it was said, had beena gift from Lloth herself in millennia past. If it was no longer functioning, it might well mean that House Baenre had fallen out of the SpiderQueen's favor. It might well mean that Lloth had dropped House

  

 Baenre's defense to allow for a conspiracy of lower houses.

 "To your posts, all of you!" the young Baenre shouted, and thegathered dark elves, sharing Berg'inyon's reasoning and his fears,did not have to be told twice.

 Berg'inyon headed for the compound's great central mound tofind his mother. He crossed paths with the drow he had just beenfighting, and the commoner's eyes widened in sudden fear. Normally Berg'inyon, honorable only by the low standards of darkelves, would have snapped his sword out and through the drow,ending the conflict. Caught up in the excitement of the fence's failure, the commoner was off his guard. He knew it, too, and heexpected to be killed.

 "To your post," Berg'inyon said to him, for if the young Baenre'ssuspicions proved correct, that a conspiracy had been launchedagainst House Baenre and Lloth had deserted them, he would need every one of the House's twenty-five hundred soldiers.

 *****

 King Bruenor Battlehammer had spent the morning in theupper chapel of Mithril Hall, trying to sort out the new hierarchy ofpriests within the complex. His dear friend Cobble had been thereigning priest, a dwarf of powerful magic and deep wisdom.

 That wisdom hadn't gotten poor Cobble out of the way of anasty drow spell, though, and the cleric had been squashed by afalling wall of iron.

 There were more than a dozen remaining acolytes in MithrilHall. They formed two lines, one on each side of Bruenor's audiencechair. Each priest was anxious to impress his (or, in the case of Stumpet Rakingclaw, her) king.

 Bruenor nodded to the dwarf at the head of the line to his left.As he did, he lifted a mug of mead, the holy water this particularpriest had concocted. Bruenor sipped, then drained the surprisingly refreshing mead in a single swallow as the cleric stepped forward.

 "A burst of light in honor of King Bruenor!" the would-be headpriest cried, and he waved his arms and began a chanting prayer toMoradin, the Soulforger, god of the dwarves.

 "Clean and fresh, and just the slightest twinge of bitterness," Bruenor remarked, running a finger along the rim of the emptied

 mug and then sucking on it, that he might savor the last drop. Thescribe directly behind the throne noted every word. "A hearty bouquet, properly curling nose hairs," Bruenor added. "Seven. "

 The eleven other clerics groaned. Seven on a scale of ten was thehighest grade Bruenor had given any of the five samples of holywater he had already taste-tested.

 If Jerbollah, the dwarf now in a frenzy of spellcasting, couldperform as well with magic, he would be difficult to beat for thecoveted position.

 "And the light shall be," Jerbollah cried, the climax of his spell, "red!"

 There came a tremendous popping noise, as if a hundreddwarves had just yanked their fingers from puckered mouths. Andthen... nothing.

 "Red!" Jerbollah cried in delight.

 "What?" demanded Bruenor, who, like those dwarves besidehim, saw nothing different about the lighting in the chapel.

 "Red!" Jerbollah said again, and when he turned about, Bruenorand the others understood. Jerbollah's face was glowing a brightred—literally, the confused cleric was seeing the world through arose-colored veil.

 Frustrated Bruenor dropped his head into his palm andgroaned.

 "Makes a good batch o' holy water, though," one of the dwarvesnearby remarked, to a chorus of snickers.

 Poor Jerbollah, who thought his spell had worked brilliantly,did not understand what was so funny.

 Stumpet Rakingclaw leaped forward, seizing the moment. Shehanded her mug of holy water to Bruenor and rushed out before thethrone.

 "I had planned something different," she explained quickly, asBruenor sipped, then swallowed the mead (and the dwarf king'sface brightened once more as he declared this batch a nine). "But acleric of Moradin, of Clanggedon, who knows battle best of all, mustbe ready to improvise!"

 "Do tell us, O Strumpet!" one of the other dwarves roared, andeven Bruenor cracked a smile as the laughter exploded about him.

 Stumpet, who was used to the nickname and wore it like abadge of honor, took no offense. "Jerbollah called for red," she

 explained, "so red it shall be!"

 "It already is red," insisted Jerbollah, who earned a slap on thehead from the dwarf behind him for his foolishness.

 The fiery young Stumpet ruffled her short red beard and went into a series of movements so exaggerated that it seemed as if shehad fallen into convulsions.

 "Move it, Strumpet," a dwarf near the throne whispered, torenewed laughter.

 Bruenor held up the mug and tapped it with his finger. "Nine,"he reminded the wise-cracking dwarf. Stumpet was in the clearlead; if she pulled off this spell where Jerbollah had failed, shewould be almost impossible to beat, which would make her thewise-cracking dwarf's boss.

 The dwarf behind the humbled jokester slapped him on theback of the head.

 "Red!" Stumpet cried with all her might.

 Nothing happened.

 A few snickers came from the line, but in truth, the gathereddwarves were more curious than amused. Stumpet was a powerfulspellcaster and should have been able to throw some light, whatever color, into the room. The feeling began to wash over them all(except Jerbollah, who insisted that his spell had worked perfectly),that something might be wrong here.

 Stumpet turned back to the throne, confused and embarrassed.She started to say something, to apologize, when a tremendousexplosion rocked the ground so violently that she and half the other dwarves in the room were knocked from their feet.

 Stumpet rolled and turned, looking back to the empty area ofthe chapel. A ball of blue sparks appeared from nowhere, hoveredin the air, then shot straight for a very surprised Bruenor. The dwarfking ducked and thrust his arm up to block, and the mug that heldStumpet's batch of holy water shattered, sheared off at the handle. Ablue storm of raging sparks burst from the impact, sending dwarvesscurrying for cover.

 More sparking bursts ignited across the room, glowing balls zipping this way and that, thunderlike booms shaking the floor and walls.

 "What in the Nine Hells did ye do?" the dwarf king, a littlecurled-up ball on his great chair, screamed at poor Stumpet.

 The female dwarf tried to respond, tried to disclaim responsibil-

 ity for this unexpected turn, but a small tube appeared in midair, generally pointed her way, and fired multicolored balls that sentStumpet scrambling away.

 It went on for several long, frightening minutes, dwarves diving every which way, sparks seeming to follow them wherever they hid,burning their backsides and singeing their beards. Then it was over,as suddenly as it had begun, leaving the chapel perfectly quiet andsmelling of sulphur.

 Gradually Bruenor straightened in his chair and tried to regainsome of his lost dignity.

 "What in the Nine Hells did ye do?" he demanded again, towhich poor Stumpet merely shrugged. A couple of dwarves managed a slight laugh at that.

 "At least it's still red," Jerbollah remarked under his breath, butloud enough to be heard. Again he was slapped by the dwarfbehind him.

 Bruenor shook his head in disgust, then froze in place as twoeyeballs appeared in the air before him, scrutinizing him ominously.

 Then they dropped to the floor and rolled about haphazardly,coming to rest several feet apart.

 Bruenor looked on in disbelief as a spectral hand came out of the air and herded the eyeballs close together and turned them sothat they were both facing the dwarf king once more.

 "Well, that's never happened before," said a disembodied voice.

 Bruenor jumped in fright, then settled and groaned yet again.He hadn't heard that voice in a long time, but never would he forget it. And it explained so much about what was going on in the chapel.

 "Harkle Harpell," Bruenor said, and whispers ignited all abouthim, for most of the other dwarves had heard Bruenor's tales ofLongsaddle, a town to the west of Mithril Hall, home of the legendary,eccentric wizard clan, the Harpells. Bruenor and his companions hadpassed through Longsaddle, had toured the Ivy Mansion, on theirway to find Mithril Hall. It was a place the dwarf, no fan of wizardrymagic, would never forget, and never remember fondly.

 "My greetings, King Bruenor," said the voice, emanating fromthe floor right below the steadied eyeballs.

 "Are ye really here?" the dwarf king asked.

 "Hmmm," groaned the floor. "I can hear both you and thosewho are around me at the Fuzzy Quarterstaff," Harkle replied,

  

 referring to the tavern at the Ivy Mansion, back in Longsaddle. "Justa moment, if you please. "

 The floor "Hmmmm'd" several more times, and the eyeballsblinked once or twice, perhaps the most curious sight Bruenor had ever seen, as an eyelid appeared from nowhere, covered the ballmomentarily, then disappeared once more.

 "It seems that I'm in both places," Harkle tried to explain. "I'mquite blind back here—of course, my eyes are there. I wonder if I might get them back..." The spectral hand appeared again, groping for the eyeballs. It tried to grasp one of them securely, but only wound up turning the ball about on the floor.

 "Whoa!" shouted a distressed Harkle. "So that is how a lizardsees the world! I must note it... "

 "Harkle!" Bruenor roared in frustration.

 "Oh, yes, yes, of course," replied Harkle, coming to what little senses he possessed. "Please excuse my distraction, King Bruenor.This has never happened before. "

 "Well it's happened now," Bruenor said dryly.

 "My eyes are there," Harkle said, as though trying to sort thingsout aloud. "But, of course, I will be there as well, quite soon. Actually, I had hoped to be there now, but didn't get through. Curiousindeed. I could try again, or could ask one of my brothers to try—"

 "No!" Bruenor bellowed, cringing at the thought that otherHarpell body parts might soon rain down on him.

 "Of course," Harkle agreed after a moment. "Too dangerous.Too curious. Very well, then. I come in answer to your call, frienddwarf king!"

 Bruenor dropped his head into his palm and sighed. He hadfeared those very words for more than two weeks now. He had sentan emissary to Longsaddle for help in the potential war onlybecause Drizzt had insisted.

 To Bruenor, having the Harpells as allies might eliminate theneed for enemies.

 "A week," Harkle's disembodied voice said. "I will arrive in aweek!" There came a long pause. "Err, umm, could you be so kindas to keep safe my eyeballs?"

 Bruenor nodded to the side, and several dwarves scrambledahead, curious and no longer afraid of the exotic items. They battledto scoop up the eyes and finally sorted them out, with two different

 dwarves each holding one—and each taking obvious pleasure inmaking faces at the eye.

 Bruenor shouted for them to quit playing even before Harkle'svoice screamed in horror.

 "Please!" pleaded the somewhat absent mage. "Only one dwarfto hold both eyes." Immediately the two dwarves clutched theirprizes more tightly.

 "Give 'em to Stumpet!" Bruenor roared. "She started this whole thing!"

 Reluctantly, but not daring to go against an order from theirking, the dwarves handed the eyeballs over.

 "And do please keep them moist," Harkle requested, to which,Stumpet immediately tossed one of the orbs into her mouth.

 "Not like that!" screamed the voice. "Oh, not like that!"

 "I should get them," protested Jerbollah. "My spell worked!"The dwarf behind Jerbollah slapped him on the head.

 Bruenor slumped low in his chair, shaking his head. It wasgoing to be a long time in putting his clerical order back together,and longer still would be the preparations for war when theHarpells arrived.

 Across the room, Stumpet, who, despite her antics, was themost level-headed of dwarves, was not so lighthearted. Harkle's unexpected presence had deflected the other apparent problems,perhaps, but the weird arrival of the wizard from Longsaddle didnot explain the happenings here. Stumpet, several of the other clerics, and even the scribe realized that something was very wrong.

 *****

 Guenhwyvar was tired by the time she, Drizzt, and Catti-brie cameto the high pass leading to Mithril Hall's eastern door. Drizzt had kept the panther on the Material Plane longer than usual, and though it wastaxing, Guenhwyvar was glad for the stay. With all the preparationsgoing on in the deep tunnels below the dwarven complex, Drizzt didnot get outside much, and consequently, neither did Guenhwyvar.

 For a long, long time, the panther figurine had been in thehands of various drow in Menzoberranzan, and, thus, the pantherhad gone centuries without seeing the out-of-doors on the MaterialPlane. Still, the out-of-doors was where Guenhwyvar was most at

  

 home, where natural panthers lived, and where the panther's firstcompanions on the Material Plane had lived.

 Guenhwyvar had indeed enjoyed this romp along mountaintrails with Drizzt and Catti-brie, but now was the time to go home, torest again on the Astral Plane. For all their love of companionship,neither the drow nor the panther could afford that luxury now, withso great a danger looming, an impending war in which Drizzt andGuenhwyvar would likely play a major role, fighting side by side.

 The panther paced about the figurine, gradually diminished,and faded to an insubstantial gray mist.

 * * * * *

 Gone from the material world, Guenhwyvar entered a long,low, winding tunnel, the silvery path that would take her back tothe Astral Plane. The panther loped easily, not eager to be gone andtoo tired to run full out. The journey was not so long anyway, andalways uneventful.

 Guenhwyvar skidded to a stop as she rounded one long bend,her ears falling flat.

 The tunnel ahead was ablaze.

 Diabolical forms, fiendish manifestations that seemed unconcerned with the approaching cat, leaped from those flames. Guenhwyvar padded ahead a few short strides. She could feel the intenseheat, could see the fiery fiends, and could hear their laughter as theycontinued to consume the circular tunnel's walls.

 A rush of air told Guenhwyvar that the tunnel had been ruptured, somewhere in the emptiness between the planes of existence.Fiery fiends were pulled into elongated shapes, then sucked out; theremaining flames danced wildly, leaping and flickering, seeming togo out altogether, then rising together in a sudden and violentsurge. The wind came strong at Guenhwyvar's back, compelling thepanther to go forward, compelling everything in the tunnel to flyout through the breach, into nothingness.

 Guenhwyvar knew instinctively that if she succumbed to thatforce, there would be no turning back, that she would become a lostthing, helpless, wandering between the planes.

 The panther dug in her claws and backpedaled slowly, fightingthe fierce wind every inch of the way. Her black coat ruffled up,

  

 sleek fur turning the wrong way.

 One step back.

 The tunnel was smooth and hard, and there was little for panther claws to dig against. Guenhwyvar's paws pedaled more frantically, but inevitably the cat began to slide forward toward the flamesand the breach.

 * * * * *

 "What is it?" Catti-brie asked, seeing Drizzt's confusion as hepicked up the figurine.

 "Warm," Drizzt replied. "The figurine is warm. "

 Catti-brie's expression likewise crinkled with confusion. Shehad a feeling of sheer dread then, a feeling she could not understand. "Call Guen back," she prompted.

 Drizzt, equally fearful, was already doing exactly that. Heplaced the figurine on the ground and called out to the panther.

 * * * * *

 Guenhwyvar heard the call, and wanted desperately to answerit, but now the cat was close to the breach. Wild flames danced high,singeing the panther's face. The wind was stronger than ever, andthere was nothing, nothing at all, for Guenhwyvar to hold on to.

 The panther knew fear, and the panther knew grief. Never againwould she come to Drizzt's call; never again would she hunt besidethe ranger in the forests near Mithril Hall or race down a mountain with Drizzt and Catti-brie.

 Guenhwyvar had known grief before, when some of her previousmasters had died. This time, though, there could be no replacement forDrizzt. And none for Catti-brie or Regis, or even Bruenor, that most frustrating of creatures, whose love and hate relationship with Guenhwyvarhad provided the panther with many hours of teasing enjoyment.

 Guenhwyvar remembered the time Drizzt had bade her lie atopsleeping Bruenor and nap. How the dwarf had roared!

 Flames bit at Guenhwyvar's face. She could see through thebreach now, see the emptiness that awaited her.

 Somewhere far off, beyond the shield of the screeching wind,came Drizzt's call, a call the cat could not answer.

  

 Chapter 7

 BAENRE'S FAULT

 Uthegental Armgo, the patron and weapon master of Barrison del'Armgo, Second House of Menzoberranzan, was not Jarlaxle's favorite drow. In fact, Jarlaxlewasn't certain that this one was truly a drow at all.Standing near six feet, with a muscled torso that weighed close totwo hundred pounds, Uthegental was the largest dark elf in Menzoberranzan, one of the largest of the normally slender race ever seenin the Underdark. More than size distinguished the fierce weaponmaster, though. While Jarlaxle was considered eccentric, Uthegentalwas simply frightening. He cropped his white hair short and spikedit with the thick, gelatinous extract gained by boiling rothe udders.A mithril ring was stuck through Uthegental's angular nose, and a golden pin protruded through each cheek.

 His weapon was a trident, black like the fine-fitting mail ofjointed plates he wore, and a net—magical, so it was said—hung on his belt, within easy reach.

 Jarlaxle was glad that at least Uthegental wasn't wearing hiswar paint this day, zigzagging streaks of some dye the mercenarydid not know that showed yellow and red in both the normal and

 infrared spectrums. It was common knowledge in Menzoberranzanthat Uthegental, in addition to being patron to Matron MotherMez'Barris, was the consort of many Barrison del'Armgo females. The second house considered him breeding stock, and the thoughtof dozens of little Uthegentals running around brought a sourexpression to Jarlaxle's face.

 "The magic is wild, yet I remain strong!" the exotic weaponmaster growled, his perpetually furrowed brow making him evenmore imposing. He held one iron-muscled arm to the side and tightened his biceps as he crooked his elbow, the rock-hard muscles of his arm standing high and proud.

 Jarlaxle took a moment to remind himself where he was, in themidst of his own encampment, in his own room and seated behind hisown desk, secretly surrounded by a dozen highly skilled and undeni ably loyal soldiers of Bregan D'aerthe. Even without the concealedallies, Jarlaxle's desk was equipped with more than a few deadly traps for troublesome guests. And, of course, Jarlaxle was no minor warriorhimself. A small part of him—avery small part of him—wonderedhow he might measure up in battle against Uthegental.

 Few warriors, drow or otherwise, could intimidate the mercenary leader, but he allowed himself a bit of humility in the face ofthis maniac.

 "Ultrin Sargtlin!" Uthegental went on, the drow term for"Supreme Warrior," a claim that seemed secure within the city withDantrag Baenre dead. Jarlaxle often imagined the battle that most ofMenzoberranzan's dark elves thought would one day be waged bybitter rivals Uthegental and Dantrag.

 Dantrag had been the quicker—quicker than anyone—but withhis sheer strength and size, Uthegental had rated as Jarlaxle'sfavorite in such a contest. It was said that when he went into hisbattle rage, Uthegental possessed the strength of a giant, and thisfearsome weapon master was so tough that when he battled lesser creatures, such as goblin slaves, he always allowed his opponent toswing first, and never tried to parry the attack, accepting the vicioushit, reveling in the pain, before tearing his enemy limb from limb and having the choicest body parts prepared for his supper.

 Jarlaxle shuddered at the notion, then put the image from hismind, reminding himself that he and Uthegental had more important business.

 "There is no weapon master, no drow at all, in Menzoberranzan to stand against me," Uthegental continued his boasting, for no reason that Jarlaxle could discern beyond the savage's overblown sense of pride.

 He went on and on, as was his way, and while Jarlaxle wantedto ask him if there was a point to it all, he kept silent, confident that the emissary from the second house would eventually get around to a serious discussion.

 Uthegental stopped his mounting tirade suddenly, and his handshot out, snatching from the top of the desk a gem that the mercenary used as a paperweight. Uthegental muttered some word thatJarlaxle did not catch, but the mercenary's keen eye did note a slightflicker in the huge drow's brooch, the house emblem of Barrisondel'Armgo. Uthegental then held the gem aloft and squeezed it withall his strength. The muscles in his sculpted arm strained andbulged, but the gem held firm.

 "I should be able to crush this," Uthegental growled. "Such isthe power, the magic, that I have been Lloth-blessed with!"

 "The gem would not be worth as much when reduced to powder," Jarlaxle replied dryly. What was Uthegental's point? he wondered. Of course, something strange was going on with magic all over the city. Now Jarlaxle better understood Uthegental's earlier boasting.The exotic weapon master was indeed still strong, but notas strong, afact that apparently worried Uthegental more than a little.

 "Magic is failing," the weapon master said, "failing everywhere.The priestesses kneel in prayer, sacrifice drow after drow, and stillnothing they do brings Lloth or her handmaidens to them. Magic isfailing, and it is Matron Baenre's fault!"

 Jarlaxle took note of the way Uthegental seemed to repeatthings. Probably to remind himself of what he was talking about, the mercenary mused, and his sour expression aptly reflected hisopinion of Uthegental's intellect. Of course, Uthegental wouldnever catch the subtle indication.

 "You cannot know that," the mercenary replied. Uthegental'saccusation no doubt came from Matron Mez'Barris herself. Manythings were coming clear to the mercenary now, mostly the fact that Mez'Barris had sent Uthegental to feel out Bregan D'aerthe, to see ifthe time was ripe for a coup against Baenre. Uthegental's words could certainly be considered damning, but not against Barrison del'Armgo,

  

 for their weapon master was always running off at the mouth, andnever with anything complimentary to anyone but himself.

 "It was Matron Baenre who allowed the rogue Do'Urden toescape," Uthegental bellowed. "It was she who presided over thefailed high ritual! Failed, as magic is failing. "

 Say it again, Jarlaxle thought, but wisely kept that derisive replysilent. The mercenary's frustration at that moment wasn't simplywith the ignorance revealed by Uthegental. It was with the fact thatUthegental's reasoning was common all over the city. To Jarlaxle'sthinking, the dark elves of Menzoberranzan continually limitedthemselves by their blind insistence that everything was symptomatic of a deeper meaning, that the Spider Queen had some granddesign behind their every movement. In the eyes of the priestesses, if Drizzt Do'Urden denied Lloth and ran away, it was only becauseLloth wanted House Do'Urden to fall and wanted the challenge ofrecapturing him presented to the other ambitious houses of the city.

 It was a limiting philosophy, one that denied free will. CertainlyLloth might play a hand in the hunt for Drizzt. Certainly she mightbe angered by the disruption of the high ritual, if she even botheredto take note of the event! But the reasoning that what was happening now was completely tied to that one event—ultimately a minorone in the five-thousand year history of Menzoberranzan—was aview of foolish pride, wherein the dwellers of Menzoberranzanseemed to think that all the multiverse revolved about them.

 "Why then is all magic failing every house?" Jarlaxle askedUthegental. "Why not just House Baenre?"

 Uthegental briskly shook his head, not even willing to considerthe reasoning. "We have failed Lloth and are being punished," hedeclared. "If onlyI had met the rogue instead of pitiful DantragBaenre!"

 Now that was a sight Jarlaxle would wish to see! DrizztDo'Urden battling Uthegental. The mere thought of it sent a tingledown the mercenary's spine.

 "You cannot deny that Dantrag was in Lloth's favor," Jarlaxlereasoned, "while Drizzt Do'Urden most certainly was not. How,then, did Drizzt win?"

 Uthegental's brow furrowed so fiercely that his red-glowingeyes nearly disappeared altogether, and Jarlaxle quickly reassessedthe prudence of pushing the brute along this line of reasoning. It

 was one thing to back Matron Baenre; it was another altogether toshake the foundation for this religion-blinded slave's entire world.

 "It will sort itself out properly," Jarlaxle assured. "In all ofArach-Tinilith, in all of the Academy, and in every chapel of everyhouse, prayers are being offered to Lloth. "

 "Their prayers are not being answered," Uthegental promptlyreminded. "Lloth is angry with us and will not speak with us untilwe have punished those who have wronged her. "

 Their prayers were not being answered, or their prayers werenot even being heard, Jarlaxle thought. Unlike most of the other typically xenophobic drow in Menzoberranzan, the mercenary was intouch with the outside world. He knew from his contacts that Blingdenstone's svirfneblin priests were having equal difficulty in theircommunion, that the deep gnomes' magic had also gone awry.Something had happened to the pantheon itself, Jarlaxle believed,and to the very fabric of magic.

 "It is not Lloth," he said boldly, to which Uthegental's eyes wentwide. Understanding exactly what was at stake here, the entire hierarchy of the city and perhaps the lives of half of Menzoberranzan'sdrow, Jarlaxle pressed ahead. "Rather, it is notsolely Lloth. Whenyou go back into the city, consider Narbondel," he said, referring tothe stone pillar clock of Menzoberranzan. "Even now, in whatshould be the cool dark of night, it glows brighter and hotter thanever before, so hot that its glow can even be viewed without theheat-sensing vision, so hot that any drow near the pillar cannot even allow their vision to slip into the heat-sensing spectrum, lest they beblinded.

 "Yet Narbondel is enchanted by a wizard, and not a priestess,"Jarlaxle went on, hoping that dim Uthegental would follow the reasoning.

 "You doubt that Lloth could affect the clock?" the weaponmaster growled.

 "I doubt she would!" Jarlaxle countered vehemently. "Themagic of Narbondel is separate from Lloth, has always been separate from Lloth. Before Gromph Baenre, some of the previous archmages of Menzoberranzan were not even followers of Lloth!" Healmost added that Gromph wasn't so devout, either, but decided to keep that bit of information back. No sense in giving the desperatesecond house additional reasons to think that House Baenre was

 even more out of the Spider Queen's favor.

 "And consider the faerie fires highlighting every structure," Jarlaxle continued. He could tell by the angle of Uthegental's furrowedbrow that the brute was suddenly more curious than outraged—nota common sight. "Blinking on and off, or winking out altogether.Wizard's faerie fire, not the magic of a priestess, and decoratingevery house, not just House Baenre. Events are beyond us, I say, andbeyond the high ritual. Tell Matron Mez'Barris, with all my respect, that I do not believe Matron Baenre can be blamed for this, and I donot believe the solution will be found in a war against the firsthouse. Not unless Lloth herself sends us a clear directive. "

 Uthegental's expression soon returned to its normal scowl. Ofcourse this one was frustrated, Jarlaxle realized. The most intelligentdrow of Menzoberranzan, the most intelligent svirfnebli of Blingdenstone, were frustrated, and nothing Jarlaxle might say wouldchange Uthegental's mind, or the war-loving savage's desire toattack House Baenre. But Jarlaxle knew he didn't have to convinceUthegental. He just had to make Uthegental say the right thingsupon his return to House Barrison del'Armgo. The mere fact thatMez'Barris sent so prominent an emissary, her own patron andweapon master, told Jarlaxle she would not lead a conspiracyagainst Baenre without the aid of, or at least the approval of, Bregan D'aerthe.

 "I go," Uthegental declared, the most welcome words Jarlaxlehad heard since the brute had entered his encampment.

 Jarlaxle removed his wide-brimmed hat and ran his hands over his bald pate as he slipped back comfortably in his chair. He couldnot begin to guess the extent of the events. Perhaps within theapparent chaos of the fabric of reality, Lloth herself had been destroyed. Not such a bad thing, Jarlaxle supposed.

 Still, he hoped things would sort themselves out soon, andproperly, as he had indicated to Uthegental, for he knew thisrequest—and it was a request—to go to war would come again, andagain after that, and each time, it would be backed by increasingdesperation. Sooner or later, House Baenre would be attacked.

 Jarlaxle thought of the encounter he had witnessed betweenMatron Baenre and K'yorl Odran, matron mother of House Oblodra, the city's third, and perhaps most dangerous, house, whenBaenre had first begun to put together the alliance to send a

  

 conquering army to Mithril Hall. Baenre had dealt from a positionof power then, fully in Lloth's favor. She had openly insulted K'yorland the third house and forced the unpredictable matron motherinto her alliance with bare threats.

 K'yorl would never forget that, Jarlaxle knew, and she could possibly be pushing Mez'Barris Armgo in the direction of a waragainst House Baenre.

 Jarlaxle loved chaos, thrived amidst confusion, but this scenariowas beginning to worry him more than a little.

 *****

 Contrary to the usually correct mercenary's belief, K'yorl Odranwas not nudging Matron Mez'Barris into a war against HouseBaenre. Quite the opposite, K'yorl was working hard to preventsuch a conflict, meeting secretly with the matron mothers of the sixother ruling houses ranked below House Baenre (except forGhenni'tiroth Tlabbar, Matron of House Faen Tlabbar, the fourthhouse, whom K'yorl could not stand and would not trust). It wasn't that K'yorl had forgiven Matron Baenre for the insult, and it wasn'tthat K'yorl was afraid of the strange events. Far from it.

 If it hadn't been for their extensive scouting network beyond House Oblodra and the obvious signs such as Narbondel and thewinking faerie fire, the members of the third house wouldn't evenhave known that anything was amiss. For the powers of HouseOblodra came not from wizardly magic, nor from the clericalprayers to the Spider Queen. The Oblodrans were psionicists. Theirpowers were formed by internal forces of the mind, and, thus far,the Time of Troubles had not affected them.

 K'yorl couldn't let the rest of the city know that. She had thescore of priestesses under her command hard at work, forcing thepsionic equivalent of faerie fire highlighting her house to blink, aswere the other houses. And to Mez'Barris and the other matronmothers, she seemed as agitated and nervous as they.

 She had to keep a lid on things; she had to keep the conspiracytalk quieted. For when K'yorl could be certain that the loss of magic was not a devious trick, her family would strike—alone. She mightpay House Faen Tlabbar back first, for all the years she had spent watching their every ambitious move, or she might strike directly

 against wretched Baenre.

 Either way, the wicked matron mother meant to strike alone.

 * * * * *

 Matron Baenre sat stiffly in a chair on the raised and torch-litcentral dais in the great chapel of her house. Her daughterSos'Umptu, who served as caretaker to this most holy of drowplaces, sat to her left, and Triel, the eldest Baenre daughter andmatron mistress of the drow Academy, was on her right. All threestared upward, to the illusionary image Gromph had put there, andit seemed strangely fitting that the image did not continue its shape-shifting, from drow to arachnid and back again, but rather, had beencaught somewhere in the middle of the transformation and suspended there, like the powers that had elevated House Baenre to its preeminent position.

 Not far away, goblin and minotaur slaves continued their workin repairing the dome, but Matron Baenre had lost all hope thatputting her chapel back together would right the strange and terrible events in Menzoberranzan. She had come to believe Jarlaxle'sreasoning that something larger than a failed high ritual and theescape of a single rogue was involved here. She had come to believethat what was happening in Menzoberranzan might be symptomatic of the whole world, of the whole multiverse, and that it wasquite beyond her understanding or her control.

 That didn't make things easier for Matron Baenre. If the otherhouses didn't share those beliefs, they would try to use her as a sacrifice to put things aright. She glanced briefly at both her daughters.Sos'Umptu was among the least ambitious drow females she hadever known, and Baenre didn't fear much from that one. Triel, onthe other hand, might be more dangerous. Though she alwaysseemed content with her life as matron mistress of the Academy, a position of no minor importance, it was widely accepted that Triel, the eldest daughter, would one day rule the first house.

 Triel was a patient one, like her mother, but, like her mother, shewas also calculating. If she became convinced that it was necessaryto remove her mother from the throne of House Baenre, that such anact would restore the Baenre name and reputation, then she woulddo so mercilessly.

 That is why Matron Baenre had recalled her from the Academyto a meeting and had located that meeting within the chapel. Thiswas Sos'Umptu's place, Lloth's place, and Triel would not darestrike out at her mother here.

 "I plan to issue a call from the Academy that no house shall usethis troubled time to war against another," Triel offered, breakingthe virtual silence—for none of the Baenres had taken note of the hammering and groaning from the slaves working on the curvingroof a mere hundred feet away. None of them took note even whena minotaur casually tossed a goblin to its death, for no better reason than enjoyment.

 Matron Baenre took a deep breath and considered the words,and the meaning behind the words. Of course Triel would issuesuch a plea. The Academy was perhaps the most stabilizing force inMenzoberranzan. But why had Triel chosen this moment to tell hermother? Why not just wait until the plea was presented openly andto all?

 Was Triel trying to reassure her? Matron Baenre wondered. Orwas she merely trying to put her off her guard?

 The thoughts circled in Matron Baenre's mind, ran about andcollided with one another, leaving her in a trembling, paranoid fit.Rationally, she understood the self-destructive nature of trying to read things into every word, of trying to outguess those who mightbe less than enemies, who might even be allies. But Matron Baenrewas growing desperate. A few weeks before, she had been at the pinnacle of her power, had brought the city together beneath her inreadiness for a massive strike at the dwarven complex of MithrilHall, near the surface.

 How fast it had been taken away, as fast as the fall of a stalactitefrom the ceiling of the cavern above her treasured chapel.

 She wasn't done yet, though. Matron Baenre had not livedthrough more than two thousand years to give up now. Damn Triel, if she was indeed plotting to take the throne. Damn them all!

 The matron mother clapped her hands together sharply, andboth her daughters started with surprise as a bipedal, man-sizedmonstrosity popped into view, standing right before them, drapedin tremendous flowing crimson robes. The creature's purplish headresembled that of an octopus, except that only four skinny tentacleswaved from the perimeter of its round, many-toothed orifice, and

 its eyes were pupilless and milky white.

 The illithid, or mind flayer, was not unknown to the Baenredaughters. Far from it, El-Viddenvelp, or Methil, as he was commonly called, was Matron Baenre's advisor and had been at her sidefor many years. Recovered from their startlement, both Sos'Umptu and Triel turned curious stares to their surprising mother.

 My greetings to you Triel,the illithid imparted telepathically.And,of course, to you, Sos'Umptu, in this, your place.

 Both daughters nodded and conjured similar mental replies,knowing that Methil would catch the thoughts as clearly as if they had spoken them aloud.

 "Fools!" Matron Baenre shouted at both of them. She leapedfrom her chair and spun about, her withered features fierce. "Howare we to survive this time if two of my principle commanders andclosest advisors are such fools?"

 Sos'Umptu was beside herself with shame, wrought of confusion. She even went so far as to cover her face with the wide sleeve of her thick purple-and-black robe.

 Triel, more worldly-wise than her younger sister, initially feltthe same shock, but quickly came to understand her mother's point."The illithid has not lost its powers," she stated, and Sos'Umptupeeked curiously from above her arm.

 "Not at all," Matron Baenre agreed, and her tone was not happy.

 "But then we have an advantage," Sos'Umptu dared to speak."For Methil is loyal enough," she said bluntly. There was no use inmasking her true feelings behind words of half-truth, for the illithid would read her mind anyway. "And he is the only one of his kind inMenzoberranzan. "

 "But not the only one who uses such powers!" Matron Baenreroared at her, causing her to shrink back in her chair once more.

 "K'yorl," Triel gasped. "If Methil has use of his powers... "

 "Then so do the Oblodrans," Baenre finished grimly.

 They exercise their powers continually,Methil telepathically confirmed to all three.The highlights of House Oblodra would not be winking were it not for the mental commands of K'yorl's coven.

 "Can we be certain of this?" Triel asked, for there seemed nodefinite patterns in the failing of magic, just a chaotic mess. PerhapsMethil had not yet been affected, or did not even know that he had been affected. And perhaps Oblodra's faerie fire highlights, though

 different in creation than the fires glowing about the other houses,were caught in the same chaos.

 Psionic powers can be sensed by psionic creatures,Methil assuredher.The third house teems with energy.

 "And K'yorl gives the appearance that this is not so," MatronBaenre added in a nasty tone.

 "She wishes to attack by surprise," Triel reasoned.

 Matron Baenre nodded grimly.

 "What of Methil?" Sos'Umptu offered hopefully. "His powersare great. "

 "Methil is more than a match for K'yorl," Matron Baenreassured her daughter, though Methil was silently doing the same thing, imparting a sense of undeniable confidence. "But K'yorl isnot alone among the Oblodrans with her psionic powers. "

 "How many?" Triel wanted to know, to which Matron Baenremerely shrugged.

 Many,Methil's thoughts answered.

 Triel was thinking it, so she knew that Methil was hearing it,and so she said it aloud, suspiciously. "And if the Oblodrans docome against us, which side will Methil take?"

 Matron Baenre was, for an instant, shocked by her daughter'sboldness, but she understood that Triel had little choice in divulgingher suspicions.

 "And will he bring in his allies from the illithid cavern not faraway?" Triel pressed. "Surely if a hundred illithids came to our sidein this, our time of need... "

 There was nothing from Methil, not a hint of telepathic communication, and that was answer enough for the Baenres.

 "Our problems are not the problems of the mind flayers,"Matron Baenre said. It was true enough, and she knew so. She hadtried to enlist the illithids in the raid on Mithril Hall, promisingthem riches and a secure alliance, but the motivations of the otherworldly, octopus-headed creatures were not the same as those of thedark elves, or of any race in all the Underdark. Those motivationsremained beyond Matron Baenre's understanding, despite her years of dealing with Methil. The most she could get from the illithids forher important raid was Methil and two others agreeing to go alongin exchange for a hundred kobolds and a score of drow males, to be used as slaves by the illithid community in their small cavern city.

 There was little else to say. The house guards were positioned atfull readiness; every spare drow was in prayer for help from the Spider Queen. House Baenre was doing everything it could to avert disaster, and yet, Matron Baenre did not believe they would succeed. K'yorl had come to her unannounced on several occasions,had gotten past her magical fence and past the many magical wardsset about the complex. The matron mother of House Oblodra haddone so only to taunt Baenre, and, in truth, had little power remaining to do anything more than that by the time her image wasrevealed to Baenre. But what might K'yorl accomplish with those magical guards down? Baenre had to wonder. How could MatronBaenre resist the psionicist without countering magic of her own?

 Her only defense seemed to be Methil, a creature she neithertrusted nor understood.

 She did not like the odds.

 Chapter 8

 MAGICAL MANIFESTATIONS

 Guenhwyvar knew pain, knew agony beyond anything thepanther had ever felt. But more than that, the pantherknew despair, true despair. Guenhwyvar was a creatureformed of magic, the manifestation of the life-force of the animal known on Toril as the panther. The very spark of existencewithin the great panther depended on magic, as did the conduit thatallowed Drizzt and the others before him to bring Guenhwyvar to thePrime Material Plane.

 Now that magic had unraveled; the fabric that wove the universalmagic into a mystical and predictable pattern was torn. The panther knew despair.

 Guenhwyvar heard Drizzt's continued calling, begging. The drow knew Guen was in trouble; his voice reflected that desperation. In hisheart, so connected with his panther companion, Drizzt Do'Urdenunderstood that Guenhwyvar would soon be lost to him forever.

 The chilling thought gave the panther a moment of renewed hopeand determination. Guenhwyvar focused on Drizzt, conjured animage of the pain she would feel if she could never again return to herbeloved master. Growling low in sheer defiance, the panther scraped

 her back legs so forcefully that more than one claw hooked on thesmooth, hard surface and was subsequently yanked out.

 The pain did not stop the panther, not when Guenhwyvar measured it against the reality of slipping forward into those flames, offalling out of the tunnel, the only connection to the material world andDrizzt Do'Urden.

 The struggle went on for more time than any creature should haveresisted. But though Guenhwyvar had not slid any closer to thebreach, neither had the panther earned back any ground toward herpleading master.

 Finally, exhausted, Guenhwyvar gave a forlorn, helpless look overher shoulder. Her muscles trembled, then gave way.

 The panther was swept to the fiery breach.

 * * * * *

 Matron Baenre paced the small room nervously, expecting a guardto run in at any moment with news that the compound had been overrun, that the entire city had risen against her house, blaming her forthe troubles that had befallen them.

 Not so long ago, Baenre had dreamt of conquest, had aspired to thepinnacle of power. Mithril Hall had been within her grasp, and, evenmore than that, the city seemed ready to fall into step behind her lead.

 Now she believed she could not hold on to even her own house, tothe Baenre empire that had stood for five thousand years.

 "Mithril Hall," the wicked drow growled in a damning curse, asthough that distant place had been the cause of it all. Her slight chestheaving with forced gasps of air, Baenre reached with both hands toher neck and tore free the chain that lay there.

 "Mithril Hall!" she shouted into the ring-shaped pendant, fashioned from the tooth of Gandalug Battlehammer, the patron of Bruenor's clan, the real link to that surface world. Every drow, even thoseclosest to Matron Baenre, thought Drizzt Do'Urden was the catalystfor the invasion, the excuse that allowed Lloth to give her blessing to the dangerous attempt at a conquest so near the surface.

 Drizzt was but a part of the puzzle, and a small part, for this littlering was the true impetus. Sealed within it was the tormented spirit ofGandalug, who knew the ways of Mithril Hall and the ways of ClanBattlehammer. Matron Baenre had taken the dwarf king herself

  

 centuries before, and it was only blind fate that had brought a renegade from Menzoberranzan in contact with Bruenor's clan, blind fatethat had provided an excuse for the conquest Matron Baenre haddesired for many, many decades.

 With a shout of outrage, Baenre hurled the tooth across the room, then fell back in shock as the item exploded.

 Baenre stared blankly into the room's corner as the smoke clearedaway, at the naked dwarf kneeling there. The matron mother pulledherself to her feet, shaking her head in disbelief, for this was no summoned spirit, but Gandalug's physical body!

 "You dare to come forth?" Baenre screamed, but her angermasked her fear. When she had previously called Gandalug's physicalform forth from the extradimensional prison, he was never truly whole, never corporeal—and never naked. Looking at him now,Baenre knew Gandalug's prison was gone, that Gandalug wasreturned exactly as he had been the moment Baenre had captured him, except for his clothes.

 The battered old dwarf looked up at his captor, his tormentor.Baenre had spoken in the drow tongue, and of course, Gandalughadn't understood a word. That hardly mattered, though, for the olddwarf wasn't listening. He was, in fact, beyond words.

 Struggling, growling, with every pained movement, Gandalugforced his back to straighten, then put one, then the other, leg underhim and rose determinedly. He understood that something was different. After centuries of torment and mostly emptiness, a fugue state in agray void, Gandalug Battlehammer felt somehow different, felt wholeand real. Since his capture, the old dwarf had lived a surreal existence,had lived a dream, surrounded by vivid, frightening images wheneverthis old wretch had called him forth, encompassed by interminableperiods of nothingness, where place and time and thought were onelong emptiness.

 But now... now Gandalug felt different, felt even the creaks andpains of his old bones. And how wonderful those sensations were!

 "Go back!" Baenre ordered, this time in the tongue of the surface,the language she always used to communicate with the old dwarf."Back to your prison until I call you forth!"

 Gandalug looked around, to the chain lying on the floor, the toothring nowhere in sight.

 "I'm not fer tinkin' so," the old dwarf remarked in his heavy,

  

 ancient dialect, and he advanced a step.

 Baenre's eyes narrowed dangerously. "You dare?" she whispered,drawing forth a slender wand. She knew how dangerous this onecould be, and thus she wasted no time in pointing the item and reciting an arcane phrase, meaning to call forth a stream of webbing thatwould engulf the dwarf and hold him fast.

 Nothing happened.

 Gandalug took another step, growling like a hungry animal withevery inch.

 Baenre's steely-eyed gaze fell away, revealing her sudden fear. Shewas a creature weaned on magic, who relied on magic to protect her andto vanquish her enemies. With the items she possessed (which she carried with her at all times) and her mighty spell repertoire, she could fend off nearly any enemy, could likely crush a battalion of toughened dwarven fighters. But without those items, and with no spells coming to hercall, Matron Baenre was a pitiful, bluffing thing, withered and frail.

 It wouldn't have mattered to Gandalug had a titan been standing before him. For some reason he could not understand, he was free ofthe prison, free and in his own body, a sensation he had not felt in twothousand years.

 Baenre had other tricks to try, and in truth, some of them, like thepouch that carried a horde of spiders that would rush to her call, had not yet fallen into the chaotic and magical web that was the Time ofTroubles. She couldn't chance it, though. Not now, not when she wasso very vulnerable.

 She turned and ran for the door.

 The corded muscles of Gandalug's mighty legs tightened, and the dwarf sprang, clearing the fifteen feet to get to the door before his tormentor.

 A fist slammed Baenre's chest, stealing her breath, and before shecould respond, she was up in the air, twirling about over the enrageddwarf's head.

 Then she was flying, to crash and crumple against the wall acrossthe room.

 "I'm to be rippin' yer head off," Gandalug promised as he steadilyadvanced.

 The door burst open, and Berg'inyon rushed into the room. Gandalug spun to face him as Berg'inyon drew his twin blades. Startled bythe sight—how had a dwarf come into Menzoberranzan, into his own

 mother's private chambers?—Berg'inyon got the blades up just asGandalug grabbed them, one in each hand.

 Had the enchantment still been upon the weapon master's fineblades, they would have cut cleanly through the tough dwarven flesh.Even without the enchantment, the magic lost in the swirl of chaos, theswords dug deeply.

 Gandalug hardly cared. He heaved Berg'inyon's arms out wide,the slender drow no match for his sheer strength. The dwarf whippedhis head forward, crashing it into Berg'inyon's supple armor, slenderrings that also relied on enchantment for their strength.

 Gandalug repeated the movement over and over, and Berg'inyon'sgrunts fast became breathless gasps. Soon the young Baenre was outon his feet, hardly conscious as Gandalug yanked the swords from hishands. The dwarf's head came in one more time, and Berg'inyon, nolonger connected to, and thus supported by, the dwarf, fell away.

 Still ignoring the deep cuts on his hands, Gandalug threw one ofBerg'inyon's swords to the side of the room, took the other properly inhand, and turned on Matron Baenre, who was still sitting against thewall, trying to clear her thoughts.

 "Where's yer smile?" the dwarf taunted, stalking in. "I'm wantin'a smile on yer stinkin' face when I hold yer head up in me hand fer all t'see!"

 The next step was the dwarf king's last, as an octopus-headedmonstrosity materialized before him, its grotesque tentacles wavinghis way.

 A stunning blast of mental energy rolled Gandalug over, and henearly dropped the sword. He shook his head fiercely to keep his witsabout him.

 He continued to growl, to shake his hairy head, as a secondblast, then a third, assaulted his sensibilities. Had he held that wallof rage, Gandalug might have withstood even these, and even thetwo subsequent attacks from Methil. But that rage melted into confusion, which was not a powerful enough feeling to defeat the mighty illithid's intrusions.

 Gandalug didn't hear the drow-made sword fall to the stone,didn't hear Matron Baenre call out for Methil and for the recoveringBerg'inyon, as she instructed the pair not to kill the dwarf.

 Baenre was scared, scared by these shifts in magic that she could notunderstand. But that fear did not prevent her from remembering her

 wicked self. For some unexplained reason, Gandalug had become aliveagain, in his own body and free of the apparently disintegrated ring.

 That mystery would not prevent Baenre from paying this oneback for the attack and the insult. Baenre was a master at torturing aspirit, but even her prowess in that fine art paled beside her abilities totorture a living creature.

 *****

 "Guenhwyvar!" The figurine was wickedly hot now, but Drizztheld on stubbornly, pressed it close to his chest, his heart, thoughwisps of smoke were running up from the edge of his cloak and theflesh of his hands was beginning to blister.

 He knew, and he would not let go. He knew that Guenhwyvar would be gone from him forever, and like a friend hugging close adying comrade, Drizzt would not let go, would be there to the end.

 His desperate calls began to lessen, not from resignation, butsimply because his voice could not get past the lump of grief in histhroat. Now his fingers, too, were burning, but he would not let go.

 Catti-brie did it for him. On a sudden, desperate impulse, theyoung woman, herself torn with the pain of grief, grabbed roughly at Drizzt's arm and slapped hard the figurine, knocking it to the ground.

 Drizzt's startled expression turned to one of outrage and denial, like the final burst of rage from a mother as she watched her child'scasket lowered into the grave. For the moment the figurine hit theground, Catti-brie drew Khazid'hea from its sheath and leaped to thespot. Up went the sword, over her head, its fine edge still showing the red line of its enchantment.

 "No!" Drizzt cried, lunging for her.

 He was too late. Tears rimming her blue eyes, her thoughts jumbled, Catti-brie found the courage for a last, desperate try, and shebrought the mighty blade to bear. Khazid'hea could cut through stone,and so it did now, at the very instant that Guenhwyvar went throughthe breach.

 There came a flash, and a throbbing pain, a pulsating magic, shotup Catti-brie's arm, hurling her backward and to the ground. Drizztskidded, pivoted, and ducked low, shielding his head as the figurine'shead fell free, loosing a line of raging fire far out into the air.

 The flames blew out a moment later and a thick gray smoke

 poured from the body of the broken figurine. Gradually Drizztstraightened from his defensive crouch and Catti-brie came back toher senses, both to find a haggard-looking Guenhwyvar, the panther'sthick coat still smoking, standing before them.

 Drizzt dove to his knees and fell over the panther, wrappingGuenhwyvar in a great hug. They both crawled their way to Catti-brie,who was still sitting on the ground, laughing and sobbing though shewas weak from the impact of the magic.

 "What have you done?" Drizzt asked her.

 She had no immediate answers. She did not know how to explainwhat had happened when Khazid'hea struck the enchanted figurine.She looked to the blade now, lying quiet at her side, its edge no longer glowing and a burr showing along its previously unblemished length.

 "I think I've ruined me sword," Catti-brie replied softly.

 *****

 Later that same day, Drizzt lounged on the bed in his room in theupper levels of Mithril Hall, looking worriedly at his panther companion. Guenhwyvar was back, and that was a better thing, he supposed,than what his instincts had told him would have happened had Catti-brie not cut the figurine.

 A better thing, but not a good thing. The panther was weary, resting by the hearth across the small room, head down and eyes closed.That nap would not suffice, Drizzt knew. Guenhwyvar was a creatureof the Astral Plane and could truly rejuvenate only among the stars.On several occasions necessity had prompted Drizzt to keep Guenhwyvar on the Material Plane for extended periods, but even a single day beyond the half the cat usually stayed left Guen exhausted.

 Even now the artisans of Mithril Hall, dwarves of no small skill,were inspecting the cut figurine, and Bruenor had sent an emissaryout to Silverymoon, seeking help from Lady Alustriel, as skilled as anythis side of the great desert Anauroch in the ways of magic.

 How long would it take? Drizzt wondered, unsure if any of themcould repair the figurine. How long could Guenhwyvar survive?

 Unannounced, Catti-brie burst through the door. One look at hertear-streaked face told Drizzt that something was amiss. He rolledfrom the bed to his feet and stepped toward the mantle, where histwin scimitars hung.

 Catti-brie intercepted him before he had completed the step andwrapped him in a powerful hug that knocked them both to the bed.

 "All I ever wanted," she said urgently, squeezing tight.

 Drizzt likewise held on, confused and overwhelmed. He managedto turn his head so he could look into the young woman's eyes, trying to read some clues.

 "I was made for ye, Drizzt Do'Urden," Catti-brie said betweensobs. "Ye're all that's been in me thoughts since the day we met. "

 It was too crazy. Drizzt tried to extract himself, but he didn't wantto hurt Catti-brie and her hold was simply too strong and desperate.

 "Look at me," she sobbed. "Tell me ye feel the same!"

 Drizzt did look at Catti-brie, as deeply as he had ever studied thebeautiful young woman. He did care for her—of course he did. He didlove her, and had even allowed himself a fantasy or two about thisvery situation.

 But now it seemed simply too weird, too unexpected and with nointroduction. He got the distinct feeling that something was out ofsorts with the woman, something crazy, like the magic all about them.

 "What of Wulfgar?" Drizzt managed to say, though the name gotmuffled as Catti-brie pressed tightly, her hair thick against Drizzt'sface. The poor drow could not deny the woman's allure, the sweetscent of Catti-brie's hair, the warmth of her toned body.

 Catti-brie's head snapped as if he had hit her. "Who?"

 It was Drizzt's turn to feel as if he had been slapped.

 "Take me," Catti-brie implored.

 Drizzt's eyes couldn't have gone any wider without falling out oftheir sockets.

 "Wield me!" she cried.

 "Wield me?" Drizzt echoed under his breath.

 "Make me the instrument of your dance," she went on. "Oh, I beg! It is all I was made for, all I desire." She stopped suddenly and pushedback to arm's length, staring wide-eyed at Drizzt as though some new angle had just popped into her head. "I am better than the others," shepromised slyly.

 What others? Drizzt wanted to scream, but by this point, the drowcouldn't get any words out of his slack-jawed mouth.

 "As are yerself," Catti-brie went on. "Better than that woman, I'mnow knowing!"

 Drizzt had almost found his center again, had almost regained

 control enough to reply, when the weight of that last statement buriedhim. Damn the subtlety! the drow determined, and he twisted andpulled free, rolling from the bed and springing to his feet.

 Catti-brie dove right behind, wrapped herself about one of hislegs, and held on with all her strength.

 "Oh, do not deny me, me love!" she screamed, so urgently thatGuenhwyvar lifted her head from the hearth and gave a low growl."Wield me, I'm begging! Only in yer hands might I be whole!"

 Drizzt reached down with both hands, meaning to extract his legfrom the tight grip. He noticed something then, on Catti-brie's hip,that gave him pause, that stunned him and explained everything all atonce.

 He noticed the sword Catti-brie had picked up in the Underdark, the sword that had a pommel shaped into the head of a unicorn. Onlyit was no longer a unicorn.

 It was Catti-brie's face.

 In one swift movement, Drizzt drew the sword out of its sheath and tugged free, hopping back two steps. Khazid'hea's red line, thatenchanted edge, had returned in full and beamed now more brightlythan ever before. Drizzt slid back another step, expecting to be tackled again.

 There was no pursuit. The young woman remained in place, halfsitting, half kneeling on the floor. She threw her head back as if inecstacy. "Oh, yes!" she cried.

 Drizzt stared down at the pommel, watched in blank amazementas it shifted from the image of Catti-brie's face back into a unicorn. Hefelt an overwhelming warmth from the weapon, a connection as intimate as that of a lover.

 Panting for breath, the drow looked back to Catti-brie, who wassitting straighter now, looking around curiously.

 "What're ye doing with me sword?" she asked quietly. Again she looked about the room, Drizzt's room, seeming totally confused. Shewould have asked, "And what am I doing here?" Drizzt realized,except that the question was already obvious from the expression onher beautiful face.

 "We have to talk," Drizzt said to her.

 Chapter 9

 IMPLICATIONS

 It was rare that both Gromph and Triel Baenre would bein audience with their mother at the same time, rarerstill that they would be joined by Berg'inyon andSos'Umptu and the two other notable Baenre daughters, Bladen'Kerst and Quenthel. Six of the seven sat in comfortablechairs about the dais in the chapel. Not Bladen'Kerst, though. Ever seeming the caged animal, the most sadistic drow in the first housepaced in circles, her brow furrowed and thin lips pursed. She was the second oldest daughter behind Triel and should have been out of the house by this time, perhaps as a matron in the Academy, oreven more likely, as a matron mother of her own, lesser, house.Matron Baenre had not allowed that, however, fearing that herdaughter's simple lack of civility, even by drow standards, woulddisgrace House Baenre.

 Triel looked up and shook her head disdainfully at Bladen'Kerstevery time she passed. She rarely gave Bladen'Kerst any thought.Like Vendes Baenre, her younger sister who had been killed by Drizzt Do'Urden during the escape, Bladen'Kerst was an instrument of her mother's torture and nothing more. She was a buffoon,

 a showpiece, and no real threat to anyone in House Baenre abovethe rank of common soldier.

 Quenthel was quite a different matter, and in the long interludesbetween Bladen'Kerst's passing, Triel's stern and scrutinizing gazenever left that one.

 And Quenthel returned the look with open hostility. She hadrisen to the rank of high priestess in record time and was reputed tobe in Lloth's highest favor. Quenthel held no illusions about her tentative position; had it not been for that fact of favor, Triel would haveobliterated her long ago. For Quenthel had made no secret of herambitions, which included the stepping stone as matron mistress ofArach-Tinilith, a position Triel had no intention of abandoning.

 "Sit down!" Matron Baenre snapped finally at the annoyingBladen'Kerst. One of Baenre's eyes was swollen shut and the side ofher face still showed the welt where she had collided with the wall.She was not used to carrying such scars, nor were others used toseeing her that way. Normally a spell of healing would have cleanedup her face, but these were not normal times.

 Bladen'Kerst stopped and stared hard at her mother, focusing on those wounds. They carried a double-edged signal. First, they showed that Baenre's powers were not as they should be, that thematron mother, that all of them, might be very vulnerable. Second,coupled with the scowl that perpetually clouded the worried matron mother's features, those wounds reflected anger.

 Anger overweighed the perceived, and likely temporary, vulnerability, Bladen'Kerst wisely decided, and sat down in herappointed chair. Her hard boot, unusual for drow, but effective forkicking males, tapped hard and urgently on the floor.

 No one paid her any attention, though. All of them followedMatron Baenre's predictable, dangerous gaze to Quenthel.

 "Now is not the time for personal ambitions," Matron Baenresaid calmly, seriously.

 Quenthel's eyes widened as though she had been caught completely off guard.

 "I warn you," Matron Baenre pressed, not the least deterred bythe innocent expression.

 "As do I!" Triel quickly and determinedly interjected. Shewouldn't usually interrupt her mother, knew better than that, butshe figured that this matter had to be put down once and for all, and

  

 that Baenre would appreciate the assistance. "You have relied onLloth's favor to protect you these years. But Lloth is away from usnow, for some reason that we do not understand. You are vulnerable, my sister, more vulnerable than any of us. "

 Quenthel came forward in her seat, even managed a smile."Would you chance that Lloth will return to us, as we both knowshe shall?" the younger Baenre hissed. "And what might it be thatdrove the Spider Queen from us?" As she asked the last questionher gaze fell over her mother, as daring as anyone had ever been inthe face of Matron Baenre.

 "Not what you assume!" Triel snapped. She had expectedQuenthel to try to lay blame on Matron Baenre's lap. The removal ofthe matron mother could only benefit ambitious Quenthel andmight indeed restore some prestige to the fast-falling house. In truth, even Triel had considered that course, but she had subsequently dismissed it, no longer believing that Matron Baenre'srecent failures had anything to do with the strangeness going onabout them. "Lloth has fled every house. "

 "This goes beyond Lloth," Gromph, the wizard whose magiccame from no god or goddess, added pointedly.

 "Enough," said Baenre, looking about alternately, her starecalming her children. "We cannot know what has brought about theevents. What we must consider is how those events will affect our position. "

 "The city desires apera'dene," Quenthel reasoned, the drowword for scapegoat. Her unblinking stare at Baenre told the matronmother who she had in mind.

 "Fool!" Baenre snapped into the face of that glare. "Do youthink they would stop withmy heart?"

 That blunt statement caught Quenthel off guard.

 "For some of the lesser houses, there never has been and neverwill be a better opportunity to unseat this house," Matron Baenrewent on, speaking to all of them. "If you think to unseat me, then doso, but know that it will do little to change the rebellion that is rising against us." She huffed and threw her arms up helplessly. "Indeed,you would only be aiding our enemies. I am your tie to BreganD'aerthe, and know that our enemies have also courted Jarlaxle.And I am Baenre! Not Triel, and not Quenthel. Without me, you allwould fall to chaos, fighting for control, each with your own

 factions within the house guard. Where will you be when K'yorlOblodra enters the compound?"

 It was a sobering thought. Matron Baenre had passed word to each of them that the Oblodrans had not lost their powers, and allthe Baenres knew the hatred the third house held for them.

 "Now is not the time for personal ambitions," Matron Baenrereiterated. "Now is the time for us to hold together and hold ourposition. "

 The nods about her were sincere, Baenre knew, though Quenthel was not nodding. "You should hope that Lloth does not comeback to me before she returns to you," the ambitious sister saidboldly, aiming the remark squarely at Triel.

 Triel seemed unimpressed. "You should hope that Lloth comes back at all," she replied casually, "else I will tear off your head andhave Gromph place it atop Narbondel, that your eyes may glowwhen the day is full. "

 Quenthel went to reply, but Gromph beat her to it.

 "A pleasure, my dear sister," he said to Triel. There was no lovelost between the two, but while Gromph was ambivalent towardTriel, he perfectly hated Quenthel and her dangerous ambitions. IfHouse Baenre fell, so, too, would Gromph.

 The implied alliance between the two elder Baenre childrenworked wonders in calming the upstart younger sister, and Quenthel said not another word the rest of the meeting.

 "May we speak now of K'yorl, and the danger to us all?"Matron Baenre asked. When no dissenting voices came forth (and ifthere had been, Baenre likely would have run out of patience andhad the speaker put to a slow death), the matron mother took up theissue of house defense. She explained that Jarlaxle and his bandcould still be trusted, but warned that the mercenary would be oneto change sides if the battle was going badly for House Baenre. Trielassured them all that the Academy remained loyal, and Berg'inyon'sreport of the readiness of the house guard was beaming.

 Despite the promising news and the well-earned reputation ofthe Baenre garrison, the conversation ultimately came down to theonly apparent way to fully fend off K'yorl and her psionic family.Berg'inyon, who had taken part in the fight with the dwarf Gandalug, voiced it first.

 "What of Methil?" he asked. "And the hundred illithids he

 represents? If they stand with us, the threat from House Oblodraseems minor. "

 The others nodded their agreement with the assessment, butMatron Baenre knew that such friends as mind flayers could not becounted on. "Methil remains at our side because he and his peopleknow we are the keystone of security for his people. The illithids donot number one-hundredth the drow in Menzoberranzan. That isthe extent of their loyalty. If Methil comes to believe that HouseOblodra is the stronger, he will not stand beside us." Baenre gave an ironic, seemingly helpless chuckle.

 "The other illithids might even side with K'yorl," she reasoned."The wretch is akin to them with her powers of the mind. Perhaps they understand one another. "

 "Should we speak so bluntly?" Sos'Umptu asked. She lookedabout the dais, concerned, and the others understood that she fearedMethil might even be among them, invisibly, hearing every word,reading their every thought.

 "It does not matter," Matron Baenre replied casually. "Methilalready knows my fears. One cannot hide from an illithid. "

 "Then what are we to do?" Triel asked.

 "We are to muster our strength," Baenre replied determinedly."We are to show no fear and no weakness. And we are not to do anything that might push Lloth further from us." She aimed thatlast remark at the rivals, Quenthel and Triel, particularly at Triel,who seemed more than ready to use this Lloth-absent time to be ridof her troublesome sister.

 "We must show the illithids we remain the power in Menzoberranzan," Baenre went on. "If they know this, then they will sidewith us, not wanting House Baenre to be weakened by K'yorl'sadvances. "

 "Igo to Sorcere," said Gromph, the archmage.

 "And I to Arach-Tinilith," added a determined Triel.

 "I make no illusions about friendship among my rivals,"Gromph added. "But a few promises of repayment when issues sort themselves out will go far in finding allies. "

 "The students have been allowed no contact outside theschool," Triel put in. "They know of the problems in general, ofcourse, but they know nothing of the threat to House Baenre. Intheir ignorance, they remain loyal. "

 Matron Baenre nodded to both of them. "And you will meetwith the lower houses that we have established," she said to Quenthel, a most important assignment. A large portion of HouseBaenre's power lay in the dozen minor houses that former Baenrenobles had come to head. So obviously a favorite of Lloth's, Quenthel was the perfect choice for such an assignment.

 Her expression revealed that she had been won over—more byTriel and Gromph's threats, no doubt, than by the tidbit that had just been thrown her way.

 The most important ingredient in squashing the rivalries,Baenre knew, was to allow both Triel and Quenthel to save face andfeel important. Thus, this meeting had been a success and all thepower of House Baenre would be coordinated into a single defensive force.

 Baenre's smile remained a meager one, though. She knew whatMethil could do, and suspected that K'yorl was not so muchweaker. All of House Baenre would be ready, but without the Lloth-given clerical magic and Gromph's wizardly prowess, would that beenough?

 *   *   *   *   *

 Just off Bruenor's audience hall on the top level of Mithril Hallwas a small room that the dwarf king had set aside for the artisansworking on repairing the panther figurine. Inside was a small forgeand delicate tools, along with dozens of beakers and flasks containing various ingredients and salves.

 Drizzt was eager indeed when he was summoned to that room. He'd gone there a dozen times a day, of course, but without invitation, and every time to find dwarves huddled over the still-brokenartifact and shaking their bearded heads. A week had passed sincethe incident, and Guenhwyvar was so exhausted that she could nolonger stand, could barely lift her head from her paws as she lay infront of the hearth in Drizzt's room.

 The waiting was the worst part.

 Now, though, Drizzt had been called into the room. He knewthat an emissary had arrived that morning from Silverymoon; hecould only hope that Alustriel had some positive solutions to offer.

 Bruenor was watching his approach through the open door of

 the audience chamber. The red-bearded dwarf nodded and pokedhis head to the side, and Drizzt cut the sharp corner, pushing openthe door without bothering to knock.

 It was among the most curious of sights that Drizzt Do'Urdenhad ever witnessed. The broken—still broken!—figurine was on a small, round table. Regis stood beside it, working furiously with amortar and pestle, mushing some blackish substance.

 Across the table from Drizzt stood a short, stout dwarf, BusterBracer, the noted armorer, the one, in fact, who had forged Drizzt'sown supple chain mail, back in Icewind Dale. Drizzt didn't dare greet the dwarf now, fearing to upset his obvious concentration.Buster stood with his feet wide apart. Every so often, he took anexaggerated breath, then held perfectly steady, for in his hands, wrapped in wetted cloth of the finest material, he held... eyeballs.

 Drizzt had no idea of what was going on until a voice, a familiar, bubbly voice, startled him from his shock.

 "Greetings, O One of the Midnight Skin!" the disembodied wizard said happily.

 "Harkle Harpell?" Drizzt asked.

 "Could it be anyone else?" Regis remarked dryly.

 Drizzt conceded the point. "What is this about?" he asked, pointedly looking toward the halfling, for he knew that any answer fromHarkle would likely shed more dimness on the blurry situation.

 Regis lifted the mixing bowl a bit. "A poultice from Silverymoon," he explained hopefully. "Harkle has overseen its mixing. "

 "Overseen," the absent mage joked, "which means they heldmy eyes over the bowl!"

 Drizzt didn't manage a smile, not with the head of the all-important figurine still lying at the sculpted body's feet.

 Regis snickered, more in disdain than humor. "It should beready," he explained. "But I wanted you to apply it. "

 "Drow fingers are so dexterous!" Harkle piped in.

 "Where are you?" Drizzt demanded, impatient and unnervedby the outrageous arrangement.

 Harkle blinked, those eyelids appearing from thin air. "InNesme," he mage replied. "We will be passing north of theTrollmoors soon. "

 "And then to Mithril Hall, where you will be reunited with youreyes," Drizzt said.

  

 "I amlooking forward to it!" Harkle roared, but again helaughed alone.

 "He keeps that up and I'm throwin' the damned eyes into meforge," Buster Bracer growled.

 Regis placed the bowl on the table and retrieved a tiny metaltool. "You'll not need much of the poultice," the halfling said as hehanded the delicate instrument to Drizzt. "And Harkle has warnedus to try to keep the mixture on the outside of the joined pieces. "

 "It is only a glue," the mage's voice added. "The magic of thefigurine will be the force that truly makes the item whole. The poultice will have to be scraped away in a few day's time. If it works asplanned, the figurine will be..." He paused, searching for theword. "Will be healed," he finished.

 "If it works," Drizzt echoed. He took a moment to feel the delicate instrument in his hands, making sure that the burns he hadreceived when the figurine's magic had gone awry were healed,making sure that he could feel the item perfectly.

 "It will work," Regis assured.

 Drizzt took a deep, steadying breath and picked up the panther head. He stared into the sculpted eyes, so much like Guenhwyvar'sown knowing orbs. With all the care of a parent tending its child, Drizzt placed the head against the body and began the painstakingtask of spreading the gluelike poultice about its perimeter.

 More than two hours passed before Drizzt and Regis exited theroom, moving into the audience hall where Bruenor was still meeting with Lady Alustriel's emissary and several other dwarves.

 Bruenor did not appear happy, but Drizzt noted he seemedmore at ease than he had since the onset of this strange time.

 "It ain't a trick o' the drow," the dwarf king said as soon asDrizzt and Regis approached. "Or the damned drow are more powerful than anyone ever thought! It's all the world, so says Alustriel. "

 "Lady Alustriel," corrected the emissary, a very tidy-looking dwarf dressed in flowing white robes and with a short and neatlytrimmed beard.

 "My greetings, Fredegar," Drizzt said, recognizing FredegarRockcrusher, better known as Fret, Lady Alustriel's favored bard and advisor. "So at last you have found the opportunity to see thewonders of Mithril Hall. "

 "Would that the times were better," Fret answered glumly.

 "Pray tell me, how fares Catti-brie?"

 "She is well," Drizzt answered. He smiled as he thought of theyoung woman, who had returned to Settlestone to convey someinformation from Bruenor.

 "It ain't a trick o' the drow," Bruenor said again, more emphatically, making it clear that he didn't consider this the proper time andplace for such light and meaningless conversation.

 Drizzt nodded his agreement—he had been assuring Bruenorthat his people were not involved all along. "Whatever has happened, it has rendered Regis's ruby useless," the drow said. Hereached over and lifted the pendant from the halfling's chest. "Nowit is but a plain, though undeniably beautiful, stone. And theunknown force has affected Guenhwyvar, and reached all the wayto the Harpells. No magic of the drow is this powerful, else theywould have long ago conquered the surface world. "

 "Something new?" Bruenor asked.

 "The effects have been felt for several weeks now," Fret interjected. "Though only in the last couple of weeks has magic becomeso totally unpredictable and dangerous. "

 Bruenor, never one to care much for magic, snorted loudly.

 "It's a good thing, then!" he decided. "The damned drow'remore needin' magic than are me own folk, or the men o' Settlestone!Let all the magic drain away, I'm sayin', and then let the drow comeon and play!"

 Thibbledorf Pwent nearly jumped out of his boots at thatthought. He leaped over to stand before Bruenor and Fret, andslapped one of his dirty, smelly hands across the tidy dwarf's back.Few things could calm an excited battlerager, but Fret's horrified, then outraged, look did just that, surprising Pwent completely.

 "What?" the battlerager demanded.

 "If you ever touch me again, I will crush your skull," Fret, whowasn't half the size of powerful Pwent, promised in an even tone,and for some inexplicable reason, Pwent believed him and backedoff a step.

 Drizzt, who knew tidy Fret quite well from his many visits to Silverymoon, understood that Fret couldn't stand ten seconds in afight against Pwent—unless the confrontation centered around dirt.In that instance, with Pwent messing up Fret's meticulous grooming, Drizzt would put all of his money on Fret, as sure a bet as the

  

 drow would ever know.

 It wasn't an issue, though, for Pwent, boisterous as he was,would never do anything against Bruenor, and Bruenor obviously wanted no trouble with an emissary, particularly a dwarven emissary from friendly Silverymoon. Indeed, all in the room had a goodlaugh at the confrontation, and all seemed more relaxed at the realization that these strange events were not connected to the mysterious dark elves.

 All except for Drizzt Do'Urden. Drizzt would not relax until thefigurine was repaired, its magic restored, and poor Guenhwyvarcould return to her home on the Astral Plane.

 Chapter 10

 THE THIRD HOUSE

 It wasn't that Jarlaxle, who always thought ahead ofothers, hadn't been expecting the visit, it was simplythe ease with which K'yorl Odran entered his camp,slipped past his guards and walked right through the wall of his private chambers, that so unnerved him. He saw herghostly outline enter and fought hard to compose himself as shebecame more substantial and more threatening.

 "I had expected you would come many days ago," Jarlaxle saidcalmly.

 "Is this the proper greeting for a matron mother?" K'yorl asked. Jarlaxle almost laughed, until he considered the female's stance. Too at ease, he decided, too ready to punish, even to kill. K'yorl didnot understand the value of Bregan D'aerthe, apparently, and thatleft Jarlaxle, the master of bluff and the player of intrigue, at somewhat of a disadvantage.

 He came up from his comfortable chair, stepped out frombehind his desk, and gave a low bow, pulling his wide-brimmedand outrageously plumed hat from his head and sweeping it acrossthe floor. "My greetings, K'yorl Odran, Matron Mother of House

 Oblodra, Third House of Menzoberranzan. Not often has my humble home been so graced... "

 "Enough," K'yorl spat, and Jarlaxle came up and replaced thehat. Never taking his gaze from the female, never blinking, the mercenary went back to his chair and flopped down comfortably,putting both his boots atop his desk with a resounding slam.

 It was then Jarlaxle felt the intrusion into his mind, a deeplyunsettling probe into his thoughts. He quickly dismissed his manycurses at the failure of conventional magic—usually his enchantedeye patch would have protected him from such a mental intrusion—and used his wits instead. He focused his gaze on K'yorl, pictured her with her clothes off, and filled his mind with thoughts so basethat the matron mother, in the midst of serious business, lost allpatience.

 "I could have the skin flailed from your bones for suchthoughts," K'yorl informed him.

 "Such thoughts?" Jarlaxle said as though he had been wounded."Surely you are not intruding on my mind, Matron K'yorl! Though Iam but a male, such practices are surely frowned on. Lloth wouldnot be pleased. "

 "Damn Lloth," K'yorl growled, and Jarlaxle was stunned thatshe had put it so clearly, so bluntly. Of course everyone knew that House Oblodra was not the most religious of drow houses, but theOblodrans had always kept at least the pretense of piety.

 K'yorl tapped her temple, her features stern. "If Lloth was worthy of my praise, then she would have recognized the truth ofpower," the matron mother explained. "It is the mind that separatesus from our lessers, the mind that should determine order. "

 Jarlaxle offered no response. He had no desire to get into thisargument with so dangerous and unpredictable a foe.

 K'yorl did not press the point, but simply waved her hand as if throwing it all away. She was frustrated, Jarlaxle could see, and in this one frustration equated with danger.

 "It is beyond the Spider Queen now," K'yorl said. "I am beyond Lloth. And it begins this day. "

 Jarlaxle allowed a look of surprise to cross his features.

 "You expected it," K'yorl said accusingly.

 That was true enough—Jarlaxle had wondered why the Oblodrans had waited this long with all the other houses so vulnerable—

  

 but he would not concede the point.

 "Where in this does Bregan D'aerthe stand?" K'yorl demanded.

 Jarlaxle got the feeling that any answer he gave would be moot,since K'yorl was probably going to tellhim exactly where BreganD'aerthe stood. "With the victors," he said cryptically and casually.

 K'yorl smiled in salute to his cleverness. "I will be the victor,"she assured him. "It will be over quickly, this very day, and with fewdrow dead. "

 Jarlaxle doubted that. House Oblodra had never shown anyregard for life, be it drow or otherwise. The drow numbers withinthe third house were small mainly because the wild clan memberskilled as often as they bred. They were renowned for a game thatthey played, a challenge of the highest stakes calledKhaless —ironically, the drow word for trust. A globe of darkness and magicalsilence would be hung in the air above the deepest point in thechasm called the Clawrift. The competing dark elves would thenlevitate into the globe and, there, unable to see or hear, it wouldbecome a challenge of simple and pure courage.

 The first one to come out of the globe and back to secure footingwas the loser, so the trick was to remain in the globe until the verylast second of the levitation enchantment.

 More often than not, both stubborn competitors would wait toolong and would plunge to their demise.

 Now K'yorl, merciless and ultimately wicked, was trying toassure Jarlaxle that the drow losses would be kept at a minimum. Bywhose standard? the mercenary wondered, and if the answer wasK'yorl's, then likely half the city would be dead before the end ofthe day.

 There was little Jarlaxle could do about that, he realized. He andBregan D'aerthe were as dependent on magic as any other dark elfcamps, and without it he couldn't even keep K'yorl out of his private chamber—even his private thoughts!

 "This day," K'yorl said again, grimly. "And when it is done, Iwill call for you, and you will come. "

 Jarlaxle didn't nod, didn't answer at all. He didn't have to. Hecould feel the mental intrusion again, and knew that K'yorl understood him. He hated her, and hated what she was about to do, butJarlaxle was ever pragmatic, and if things went as K'yorl predicted,then he would indeed go to her call.

  

 She smiled again and faded away. Then, like a ghost, she simplywalked through Jarlaxle's stone wall.

 Jarlaxle rested back in his chair, his fingers tapping nervouslytogether. He had never felt so vulnerable, or so caught in the middle of an uncontrollable situation. He could get word to Matron Baenre,of course, but to what gain? Even House Baenre, so vast and proud,could not stand against K'yorl when her magic worked and theirsdid not. Likely, Matron Baenre would be dead soon, and all her family with her, and then where would the mercenary hide?

 He would not hide, of course. He would go to K'yorl's call.

 Jarlaxle understood why K'yorl had paid him the visit and whyit was important to her, who seemed to have everything in her favor,to enlist him in her court. He and his band were the only drow in Menzoberranzan with any true ties outside the city, a crucial factorfor anyone aspiring to the position of first matron mother—not that anyone other than Matron Baenre had aspired to that coveted position in close to a thousand years.

 Jarlaxle's fingers continued tapping. Perhaps it was time for a change, he thought. He quickly dismissed that hopeful notion, foreven if he was right, this change did not seem for the better. Apparently, though, K'yorl believed that the situation with conventionalmagic was a temporary thing, else she would not have been so interested in enlisting Bregan D'aerthe.

 Jarlaxle had to believe, had to pray, that she was right, especially if her coup succeeded (and the mercenary had no reason tobelieve it would not). He would not survive long, he realized, ifFirst Matron Mother K'yorl, a drow he hated above all others, couldenter his thoughts at will.

 *   *   *   *   *

 She was too beautiful to be drow, seemed the perfection of drowfeatures to any, male or female, who looked at her. It was this beautyalone that held in check the deadly lances and crossbows of theHouse Baenre guard and made Berg'inyon Baenre, after one glanceat her, bid her enter the compound.

 The magical fence wasn't working and there were no conventional gates in the perimeter of the Baenre household. Normally, thespiderweb of the fence would spiral out, opening a wide hole on

  

 command, but now Berg'inyon had to ask the drow to climb over.

 She said not a word, but simply approached the fence. Spiralwide it did, one last gasp of magic before this creature, the avatar ofthe goddess who had created it.

 Berg'inyon led the way, though he knew beyond doubt that thisone needed no guidance. He understood that she was heading forthe chapel—of course she would be heading for the chapel!—so he instructed some of his soldiers to find the matron mother.

 Sos'Umptu met them at the door of the chapel, the place thatwas in her care. She protested for an instant, but just for an instant.

 Berg'inyon had never seen his devoted sister so flustered, hadnever seen her jaw go slack for lack of strength. She fell away fromthem, to her knees.

 The beautiful drow walked past her without a word. She turned sharply—Sos'Umptu gasped—and put her glare over Berg'inyon ashe continued to follow.

 "You are just a male," Sos'Umptu whispered in explanation. "Begone from this holy place. "

 Berg'inyon was too stricken to reply, to even sort out how he feltat that moment. He never turned his back, just gave a series ofridiculous bows, and verily fell through the chapel's door, back outinto the courtyard.

 Both Bladen'Kerst and Quenthel were out there, but the rest ofthe group that had gathered in response to the whispered rumorshad wisely been dispersed by the sisters.

 "Go back to your post," Bladen'Kerst snarled at Berg'inyon."Nothing has happened!" It wasn't so much a statement as a command.

 "Nothing has happened," Berg'inyon echoed, and that becamethe order of the day, and a wise one, Berg'inyon immediately realized. This was Lloth herself, or some close minion. He knew this in his heart.

 He knew it, and the soldiers would whisper it, but their enemiesmust not learn of this!

 Berg'inyon scrambled across the courtyard, passed the word,the command that "nothing had happened." He took up a post thatallowed him an overview of the chapel and was surprised to seethat his ambitious sisters dared not enter, but rather paced about the main entrance nervously.

  

 Sos'Umptu came out as well and joined their parade. No words were openly exchanged—Berg'inyon didn't even notice any flashesof the silent hand code—as Matron Baenre hustled across the courtyard. She passed by her daughters and scurried into the chapel, and the pacing outside began anew.

 For Matron Baenre it was the answer to her prayers and therealization of her nightmares all at once. She knew immediatelywho and what it was that sat before her on the central dais. Sheknew, and she believed.

 "If I am the offending person, then I offer myself..."she began humbly, falling to her knees as she spoke.

 "Wael!"the avatar snapped at her, the drow word for fool, andBaenre hid her face in her hands with shame.

 "Usstan'sargh wael!"the beautiful drow went on, calling MatronBaenre an arrogant fool. Baenre trembled at the verbal attack,thought for a moment that she had sunk lower than her worst fears,that her goddess had come personally for no better reason than toshame her to death. Images of her tortured body being dragged through the winding avenues of Menzoberranzan flashed in hermind, thoughts of herself as the epitome of a fallen drow leader.

 Yet thoughts such as that were exactly what this creature whowas more than a drow had just berated her about, Matron Baenresuddenly realized. She dared look up.

 "Do not place so much importance on yourself," the avatar saidcalmly.

 Matron Baenre allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. Thenthis wasn't about her, she understood. All of this, the failure ofmagic and prayer, was beyond her, beyond all the mortal realms.

 "K'yorl has erred," the avatar went on, reminding Baenre thatwhile these catastrophic events might be above her, their ramifications most certainly were not.

 "She has dared to believe that she can win without your favor,"Matron Baenre reasoned, and her surprise was total when the avatar scoffed at the notion.

 "She could destroy you with a thought. "

 Matron Baenre shuddered and lowered her head once more.

 "But she has erred on the side of caution," the avatar went on."She delayed her attack, and now, when she decided that the advantage was indeed hers to hold, she has allowed a personal feud to

  

 delay her most important strike even longer. "

 "Then the powers have returned!" Baenre gasped. "You arereturned. "

 "Wael!"the frustrated avatar screamed. "Did you think I wouldnot return?" Matron Baenre fell flat to the floor and groveled withall her heart.

 "The Time of Troubles will end," the avatar said a moment later,calm once more. "And you will know what you must do when all isas it should be. "

 Baenre looked up just long enough to see the avatar's narrow-eyed glare full upon her. "Do you think I am so resourceless?" thebeautiful drow asked.

 A horrified expression, purely sincere, crossed Baenre's face,and she began to numbly shake her head back and forth, denyingshe had ever lost faith.

 Again, she lay flat out, groveling, and stopped her prayers onlywhen something hard hit the floor beside her head. She dared tolook up, to find a lump of yellow stone, sulphur, lying beside her.

 "You must fend off K'yorl for a short while," the avatarexplained. "Go join the matron mothers and your eldest daughterand son in the meeting room. Stoke the flames and allow those Ihave enlisted to come through to your side. Together we will teach K'yorl the truth of power!"

 A bright smile erupted on Baenre's face with the realization that shewas not out of Lloth's favor, that her goddess had called on her to play acrucial role in this crucial hour. The fact that Lloth had all but admittedshe was still rather impotent did not matter. The Spider Queen wouldreturn, and Baenre would shine again in her devious eyes.

 By the time Matron Baenre mustered the courage to come offthe floor, the beautiful drow had already exited the chapel. Shecrossed the compound without interference, walked through thefence as she had done at her arrival, and disappeared into the shadows of the city.

 *    *    *    *    *

 As soon as she heard the awful rumor that House Oblodra'sstrange psionic powers had not been too adversely affected bywhatever was happening to other magic, Ghenni'tiroth Tlabbar, the

  

 matron mother of Faen Tlabbar, Menzoberranzan's Fourth House, knew she was in dire trouble. K'yorl Odran hated the tall, slenderGhenni'tiroth above all others, for Ghenni'tiroth had made no secretof the fact that she believed Faen Tlabbar, and not Oblodra, shouldrank as Menzoberranzan's third house.

 With almost eight hundred drow soldiers, Faen Tlabbar's number nearly doubled that of House Oblodra, and only the little understood powers of K'yorl and her minions had kept Faen Tlabbarback.

 How much greater those powers loomed now, with all conventional magic rendered unpredictable at best!

 Throughout it all, Ghenni'tiroth remained in the house chapel, arelatively small room near the summit of her compound's centralstalagmite mound. A single candle burned upon the altar, sheddingminimal light by surface standards, but serving as a beacon to the dark elves whose eyes were more accustomed to blackness. A second source of illumination came from the room's west-facing window, for even from halfway across the city, the wild glow ofNarbondel could be clearly seen.

 Ghenni'tiroth showed little concern for the pillar clock, other thanthe significance it now held as an indicator of their troubles. She wasamong the most fanatical of Lloth's priestesses, a drow female whohad survived more than six centuries in unquestioning servitude tothe Spider Queen. But she was in trouble now, and Lloth, for some reason she could not understand, would not come to her call.

 She reminded herself constantly to keep fast her faith as sheknelt and huddled over a platinum platter, the famed Faen TlabbarCommuning Plate. The heart of the latest sacrifice, a not-so-insignificant drow male, sat atop it, an offering to the goddess whowould not answer Ghenni'tiroth's desperate prayers.

 Ghenni'tiroth straightened suddenly as the heart rose from thebloody platter, came up several inches and hovered in midair.

 "The sacrifice is not sufficient," came a voice behind her, a voiceshe had dreaded hearing since the advent of the Time of Troubles.

 She did not turn to face K'yorl Odran.

 "There is war in the compound," Ghenni'tiroth stated morethan asked.

 K'yorl scoffed at the notion. A wave of her hand sent the sacrificial organ flying across the room.

 Ghenni'tiroth spun about, eyes wide with outrage. She startedto scream out the drow word for sacrilege, but stopped, the soundcaught in her throat, as another heart floated in the air, from K'yorl toward her.

 "The sacrifice was not sufficient," K'yorl said calmly. "Use this heart, the heart of Fini'they. "

 Ghenni'tiroth slumped back at the mention of the obviouslydead priestess, her second in the house. Ghenni'tiroth had taken inFini'they as her own daughter when Fini'they's family, a lower-ranking and insignificant house, had been destroyed by a rivalhouse. Insignificant indeed had been Fini'they's house—Ghenni'tiroth could not even remember its proper name—butFini'they had not been so. She was a powerful priestess, and ultimately loyal, even loving, to her adopted mother.

 Ghenni'tiroth leaned back further, horrified, as her daughter'sheart floated past and settled with a sickening wet sound on theplatinum platter.

 "Pray to Lloth," K'yorl ordered.

 Ghenni'tiroth did just that. Perhaps K'yorl had erred, shethought. Perhaps in death Fini'they would prove most helpful,would prove a suitable sacrifice to bring the Spider Queen to the aidof House Faen Tlabbar.

 After a long and uneventful moment, Ghenni'tiroth becameaware of K'yorl's laughter.

 "Perhaps we are in need of a greater sacrifice," the wickedmatron mother of House Oblodra said slyly.

 It wasn't difficult for Ghenni'tiroth, the only figure in HouseFaen Tlabbar greater than Fini'they, to figure out who K'yorl wastalking about.

 Secretly, barely moving her fingers, Ghenni'tiroth brought herdeadly, poisoned dagger out of its sheath under the concealing foldsof her spider-emblazoned robes. "Scrag-tooth," the dagger wascalled, and it had gotten a younger Ghenni'tiroth out of many situations much like this.

 Of course, on those occasions, magic had been predictable, reliable, and those opponents had not been as formidable as K'yorl.Even as Ghenni'tiroth locked gazes with the Oblodran, kept K'yorldistracted while she subtly shifted her hand, K'yorl read herthoughts and expected the attack.

 Ghenni'tiroth shouted a command word, and the dagger'smagic functioned, sending the missile shooting out from under herrobes directly at the heart of her adversary.

 The magic functioned! Ghenni'tiroth silently cheered. But herelation faded quickly when the blade passed right through thespecter of K'yorl Odran to embed itself uselessly in the fabric of atapestry adorning the room's opposite wall.

 "I do so hope the poison does not ruin the pattern," K'yorl,standing far to the left of her image, remarked.

 Ghenni'tiroth shifted about and turned a steely-eyed gaze at thetaunting creature.

 "You cannot outfight me, you cannot outthink me," K'yorl saidevenly. "You cannot even hide your thoughts from me. The war isended before it ever began. "

 Ghenni'tiroth wanted to scream out a denial, but found herselfas silent as Fini'they, whose heart lay on the platter before her.

 "How much killing need there be?" K'yorl asked, catchingGhenni'tiroth off her guard. The matron of Faen Tlabbar turned asuspicious, but ultimately curious, expression toward her adversary.

 "My house is small," K'yorl remarked, and that was trueenough, unless one counted the thousands of kobold slaves said tobe running about the tunnels along the edges of the Clawrift, justbelow House Oblodra. "And I am in need of allies if I wish todepose that wretch Baenre and her bloated family. "

 Ghenni'tiroth wasn't even conscious of the movement as hertongue came out and licked her thin lips. There was a flicker ofhope.

 "You cannot beat me," K'yorl said with all confidence. "Perhaps I will accept a surrender. "

 That word didn't sit well with the proud leader of the thirdhouse.

 "An alliance then, if that is what you must call it," K'yorl clarified, recognizing the look. "It is no secret that I am not on the best ofterms with the Spider Queen. "

 Ghenni'tiroth rocked back on her legs, considering the implications. If she helped K'yorl, who was not in Lloth's favor, overcomeBaenre, then what would be the implications to her house if and when everything was sorted out?

 "All of this is Baenre's fault," K'yorl remarked, reading

 Ghenni'tiroth's every thought. "Baenre brought about the SpiderQueen's abandonment," K'yorl scoffed. "She could not even hold a single prisoner, could not even conduct a proper high ritual. "

 The words rang true, painfully true, to Ghenni'tiroth, whovastly preferred Matron Baenre to K'yorl Odran. She wanted todeny them, and yet, that surely meant her death and the death ofher house, since K'yorl held so obvious an advantage.

 "Perhaps I will accept a surren—" K'yorl chuckled wickedlyand caught herself in midsentence. "Perhaps an alliance would benefit us both," she said instead.

 Ghenni'tiroth licked her lips again, not knowing where to turn.A glance at Fini'they's heart did much to convince her, though. "Perhaps it would," she said.

 K'yorl nodded and smiled again that devious and infamousgrin that was known throughout Menzoberranzan as an indicationthat K'yorl was lying.

 Ghenni'tiroth returned the grin—until she remembered who itwas she was dealing with, until she forced herself, through thetemptation of the teasing bait that K'yorl had offered, to rememberthe reputation of this most wicked drow.

 "Perhaps not," K'yorl said calmly, and Ghenni'tiroth wasknocked backward suddenly by an unseen force, a physical thoughinvisible manifestation of K'yorl's powerful will.

 The matron of Faen Tlabbar jerked and twisted, heard the crackof one of her ribs. She tried to call out against K'yorl, to cry out toLloth in one final, desperate prayer, but found her words garbled asan invisible hand grasped tightly on her throat, cutting off her air.

 Ghenni'tiroth jerked again, violently, and again, and morecracking sounds came from her chest, from intense pressure withinher torso. She rocked backward and would have fallen to the floor except that K'yorl's will held her slender form fast.

 "I am sorry Fini'they was not enough to bring in your impotent Spider Queen," K'yorl taunted, brazenly blasphemous.

 Ghenni'tiroth's eyes bulged and seemed as if they would popfrom their sockets. Her back arched weirdly, agonizingly, and gurgling sounds continued to stream from her throat. She tore at theflesh of her own neck, trying to grasp the unseen hand, but onlydrew lines of her own bright blood.

 Then there came a final crackle, a loud snapping, and

 Ghenni'tiroth resisted no more. The pressure was gone from her throat, for what good that did her. K'yorl's unseen hand grabbedher hair and yanked her head forward so that she looked down atthe unusual bulge in her chest, beside her left breast.

 Ghenni'tiroth's eyes widened in horror as her robes parted and herskin erupted. A great gout of blood and gore poured from the wound,and Ghenni'tiroth fell limply, lying sidelong to the platinum plate.

 She watched the last beat of her own heart on that sacrificialplatter.

 "Perhaps Lloth will hear this call," K'yorl remarked, butGhenni'tiroth could no longer understand the words.

 K'yorl went to the body and retrieved the potion bottle thatGhenni'tiroth carried, that all House Faen Tlabbar females carried. The mixture, a concoction that forced passionate servitude of drowmales, was a potent one—or would be, if conventional magic returned. This bottle was likely the most potent, and K'yorl markedit well for a certain mercenary leader.

 K'yorl went to the wall and claimed Scrag-tooth as her own.

 To the victor...

 With a final look to the dead matron mother, K'yorl called onher psionic powers and became less than substantial, became aghost that could walk through the walls and past the guards of thewell-defended compound. Her smile was supreme, as was her confidence, but as Lloth's avatar had told Baenre, Odran had indeederred. She had followed a personal vengeance, had struck out firstagainst a lesser foe.

 Even as K'yorl drifted past the structures of House Faen Tlabbar, gloating over the death of her most hated enemy, MatronsBaenre and Mez'Barris Armgo, along with Triel and Gromph Baenreand the matron mothers of Menzoberranzan's fifth through eighthhouses, were gathered in a private chamber at the back of theQu'ellarz'orl, the raised plateau within the huge cavern that heldsome of the more important drow houses, including House Baenre.The eight of them huddled, each to a leg, about the spider-shapedbrazier set upon the small room's single table. Each had broughttheir most valuable of flammable items, and Matron Baenre carriedthe lump of sulphur that the avatar had given her.

 None of them mentioned, but all of them knew, that this mightbe their only chance.

  

 Chapter 11

 TRUMP

 Normally it pleased Jarlaxle to be in the middle of such a conflict, to be the object of wooing tactics by both sidesin a dispute. This time, though, Jarlaxle was uneasy with the position. He didn't like dealing with K'yorlOdran on any account, as friends, and especially not as enemies,and he was uneasy with House Baenre being so desperatelyinvolved in any struggle. Jarlaxle simply had too much investedwith Matron Baenre. The wary mercenary leader usually didn'tcount on anything, but he had fully expected House Baenre to rulein Menzoberranzan until at least the end of his life, as it had ruledsince the beginning of his life and for millennia before that.

 It wasn't that Jarlaxle held any special feelings toward the city'sfirst house. It was just that Baenre offered him an anchor point, ameasure of permanence in the continually shifting power strugglesof Menzoberranzan.

 It would last forever, so he had thought, but after talking withK'yorl—how he hated that one!—Jarlaxle wasn't so sure.

 K'yorl wanted to enlist him, most likely wanted Bregan D'aertheto serve as her connection with the world beyond Menzoberranzan.

 They could do that, and do it well, but Jarlaxle doubted that he, whoalways had a private agenda, could remain in K'yorl's favor forlong. At some point, sooner or later, she would read the truth in hismind, and she would dispatch and replace him.That was the way of the drow.

 *   *   *   *   *

 The fiend was gargantuan, a gigantic, bipedal, doglike creaturewith four muscled arms, two of which ended in powerful pincers.How it entered Jarlaxle's private cave, along the sheer facing of theClawrift, some hundred yards below and behind the compound ofHouse Oblodra, none of the drow guards knew.

 "Tanar'ri!"The warning word, the name of the greatest creatures of the Abyss, known in all the languages of the Realms, waspassed in whispers and silent hand signals all through the complex,and the reaction to it was uniformly one of horror.

 Pity the two drow guards who first encountered the towering, fifteen-foot monster. Loyal to Bregan D'aerthe, courageous in thebelief that others would back their actions, they commanded thegreat beast to halt, and when it did not, the drow guards attacked.

 Had their weapons held their previous enchantment, theymight have hurt the beast somewhat. But magic had not returned tothe Material Plane in any predictable or reliable manner. Thus, thetanar'ri, too, was deprived of its considerable spell repertoire, butthe beast, four thousand pounds of muscle and physical hazards,hardly needed magical assistance.

 The two drow were summarily dismembered, and the tanar'riwalked on, seeking Jarlaxle, as Errtu had bade it.

 It found the mercenary leader, along with a score of his finestsoldiers, around the first bend. Several drow leaped forward to the defense, but Jarlaxle, better understanding the power of this beast,held them at bay, was not so willing to throw away drow lives.

 "Glabrezu," he said with all respect, recognizing the beast.

 Glabrezu's canine maw curled up in a snarl, and its eyes narrowed as it scrutinized Jarlaxle, privately confirming that it hadfound the correct dark elf.

 "Baenre cok diemrey nochtero,"the tanar'ri said in a growl, andwithout waiting for a response, the gigantic beast lumbered about

  

 and waddled away, crouching low so that its head did not scrapethe corridor's high ceiling.

 Again, several brave, stupid drow moved as if to pursue, andagain Jarlaxle, smiling now more widely than he had in manyweeks, held them back. The tanar'ri had spoken in the language ofthe lower planes, a language that Jarlaxle understood perfectly, and it had spoken the words Jarlaxle had longed to hear.

 The question was clear on the expressions of all the unnerveddrow standing beside him. They did not understand the languageand wanted desperately to know what the tanar'ri had said.

 "Baenre cok diemrey nochtero,"Jarlaxle explained to them. "HouseBaenre will prevail. "

 His wry smile, filled with hope, and the eager way he clenchedhis fists, told his soldiers that such a prediction was a good thing.

 *****

 Zeerith Q'Xorlarrin, matron mother of the fifth house, understood the significance of the makeup of the gathering. Triel andGromph Baenre attended primarily to fill the two vacant spots at thespider-shaped brazier. One of those places rightfully belonged toK'yorl, and since they were gathered to fend off K'yorl, as the avatarof the Spider Queen had bade them, she hadn't been invited.

 The other vacant place, the one filled by Gromph, was normallyreserved for Zeerith's closest drow friend, Matron MotherGhenni'tiroth Tlabbar. None had said it aloud, but Zeerith understood the significance of the Baenre son's presence and of thematron mother's failure to appear.

 K'yorl hated Ghenni'tiroth—that was no secret—and soGhenni'tiroth had been left open as a sacrifice to delay the intrusions of House Oblodra. These other supposed allies and the goddess they all served had allowed Zeerith's best friend to perish.

 That thought bothered the matron mother for a short while, until she came to realize that she was the third highest-rankingdrow in the meeting chamber. If the summoning was successful, if K'yorl and House Oblodra were beaten back, then the hierarchy ofthe ruling houses would surely shift. Oblodra would fall, leavingvacant the third place, and since Faen Tlabbar was suddenly without a proper matron mother, it was feasible that House Xorlarrin

 could leap past it into that coveted spot.

 Ghenni'tiroth had been given as a sacrifice. Zeerith Q'Xorlarrinsmiled widely.

 Such were the ways of the drow.

 Into the brazier went Gromph's prized spider mask, a mostmagical item, the only one in all of Menzoberranzan that could getsomeone over the House Baenre web fence. The flames shot into the air, orange and angry green.

 Mez'Barris nodded to Baenre, and the withered old matronmother tossed in the lump of sulphur that the avatar had given her.

 If a hundred excited dwarves had pumped a huge bellows, theirfire would not have been more furious. The flames shot straight upin a multicolored column that held the eight watchers fast with itsunholy glory.

 "What is this?" came a question from the front of the room, nearthe only door. "You dare hold a meeting of council without informing House Oblodra?"

 Matron Baenre, at the head of the table and, thus, with her backdirectly to K'yorl, held up her hand to calm the others gatheredabout the spider brazier. Slowly she turned to face that most hateddrow, and the two promptly locked vicious stares.

 "The executioner does not invite her victim to the block,"Baenre said evenly. "She takes her there, or lures her in. "

 Baenre's blunt words made more than a few of the gathereddrow uneasy. If K'yorl had been handled more tactfully, some ofthem might have escaped with their lives.

 Matron Baenre knew better, though. Their only hope, her onlyhope, was to trust the Spider Queen, to believe with all their hearts that the avatar had not steered them wrongly.

 When K'yorl's first wave of mental energy rolled over Baenre,she, too, began to foster some doubts. She held her ground for some seconds, a remarkable display of will, but then K'yorl overwhelmedher, pushed her back against the table. Baenre felt her feet comingfrom the floor, felt as if a gigantic, unseen hand had reached out andgrabbed her and was now edging her toward the flames.

 "How much grander the call to Lloth will be," K'yorl shriekedhappily, "when Matron Baenre is added to the flames!"

 The others in the room, particularly the other five matron mothers, did not know how to react. Mez'Barris put her head down and

  

 quietly began muttering the words of a spell, praying that Llothwould hear her and grant her this.

 Zeerith and the others watched the flames. The avatar had toldthem to do this, but why hadn't an ally, a tanar'ri or some otherfiend, come through?

 *   *   *   *   *

 In the sludge-filled Abyss, perched atop his mushroom throne,Errtu greatly enjoyed the chaotic scene. Even through the scrying device Lloth had prepared for him, the great tanar'ri could feel the fears of the gathered worshippers and could taste the bitter hatredon the lips of K'yorl Odran.

 He liked K'yorl, Errtu decided. Here was one of his own heart,purely and deliciously wicked, a murderess who killed for pleasure,a player of intrigue for no better reason than the fun of the game. The great tanar'ri wanted to watch K'yorl push her adversary intothe pillar of flame.

 But Lloth's instructions had been explicit, and her barteredgoods too tempting for the fiend to pass up. Amazingly, given thestate of magic at the time, the gate was opening, and opening wide.

 Errtu had already sent one tanar'ri, a giant glabrezu, through asmaller gate to act as messenger, but that gate, brought about by theavatar herself, had been tenuous and open for only a fraction of amoment. Errtu had not believed the feat could be duplicated, not now.

 The notion of magical chaos gave the fiend a sudden inspiration. Perhaps the old rules of banishment no longer applied. Perhaps he himself might walk through this opening gate, onto theMaterial Plane once more. Then he would not need to serve asLloth's lackey; then he might find the renegade Do'Urden on hisown, and, after punishing the drow, he could return to the frozenNorthland, where the precious Crenshinibon, the legendary CrystalShard, lay buried!

 The gate was opened. Errtu stepped in.

 And was summarily rejected, pushed back into the Abyss, theplace of his hundred-year banishment.

 Several fiends stalked by the great tanar'ri, sensing the opening,heading for the gate, but snarling Errtu, enraged by the defeat, heldthem back.

 Let this wicked drow, K'yorl, push Lloth's favored into theflames, the wretched Errtu decided. The gate would remain openwith the sacrifice, might even open wider.

 Errtu did not like the banishment, did not like being lackey toany being. Let Lloth suffer; let Baenre be consumed, and only then would he do as the Spider Queen had asked!

 *   *  *   *   *

 The only thing that saved Baenre from exactly that fate was theunexpected intervention of Methil, the illithid. The glabrezu hadgone to Methil after visiting Jarlaxle, bringing the same predictionthat House Baenre would prevail, and Methil, serving as ambassador of his people, made it a point to remain on the winning side.

 The illithid's psionic waves disrupted K'yorl's telepathic attack,and Matron Baenre slumped back to the side of the table.

 K'yorl's eyes went wide, surprised by the defeat—until Methil,who had been standing invisibly and secretly at Matron Baenre'sside, came into view.

 Wait for this to end,K'yorl's thoughts screamed at the octopus-headed creature.See who wins and then decide where your alliances lie.

 Methil's assurance that he already knew the outcome did notdisturb K'yorl half as much as the sight of the gigantic, batlike wingthat suddenly extended from the pillar of flame: a tanar'ri—a truetanar'ri!

 Another glabrezu hopped out of the fire to land on the floorbetween Baenre and her adversary. K'yorl hit it with a psionic barrage, but she was no match for such a creature, and she knew it.

 She took note that the pillar was still dancing wildly, thatanother fiend was forming within the flames. Lloth was against her!she suddenly realized. All the Abyss seemed to be coming toMatron Baenre's call!

 K'yorl did the only thing she could, became insubstantial oncemore and fled across the city, back to her house.

 Fiends rushed through the open gate, a hundred of them, andstill more. It went on for more than an hour, the minions of Errtu,and, thus, the minions of Lloth, coming to the call of the desperatematron mothers, swooping across the city in frenzied glee to sur round House Oblodra.

 Smiles of satisfaction, even open cheers, were exchanged in themeeting room at the back of the Qu'ellarz'orl. The avatar had doneas promised, and the future of Lloth's faithful seemed deliciouslydark once more.

 Of the eight gathered, only Gromph wore a grin that was lessthan sincere. Not that he wanted House Oblodra to win, of course,but the male held no joy at the thought that things might soon be as they had always been, that he, for all his power and devotion to theways of magic, would, above all else, be a mere male once more.

 He took some consolation, as the flames died away and theothers began to exit, in noticing that several of the offered items,including his prized spider mask, had not been consumed by themagical flames. Gromph looked to the door, to the matron mothersand Triel, and they were so obsessed with the spectacle of the fiendsthat they took no notice of him at all.

 Quietly and without attracting attention, the covetous drowwizard replaced his precious item under the folds of his robe, thenadded to his collection some of the most prized artifacts of Menzoberranzan's greatest houses.

 Part 3

 RESOLUTION

 How I wanted to go to Catti-brie after I realized the dangers ofher sword! How I wanted to stand by her and protect her! Theitem had possessed her, after all, and was imbued with a powerful and obviously sentient magic.

 Catti-brie wanted me by her side—who wouldn't want the supportiveshoulder of a friend with such a struggle looming?—and yet she did notwant me there, could not have me there, for she knew this battle was hers tofight alone.

 I had to respect her conclusion, and in those days when the Time ofTroubles began to end and the magics of the world sorted themselves outonce more, I came to learn that sometimes the most difficult battles are theones we are forced not to fight.

 I came to learn then why mothers and fathers seldom have fingernailsand often carry an expression of forlorn resignation. What agony it must befor a parent in Silverymoon to be told by her offspring, no longer a child,that he or she has decided to head out to the west, to Waterdeep, to sail foradventure along the Sword Coast. Everything within that parent wants toyell out "Stay!" Every instinct within that parent wants to hug the childclose, to protect that child forever. And yet, ultimately, those instincts arewrong.

 In the heart, there is no sting greater than watching the struggles ofone you love, knowing that only through such strife will that person growand recognize the potential of his or her existence. Too many thieves in theRealms believe the formula for happiness lies in an unguarded treasuretrove. Too many wizards seek to circumvent the years of study required fortrue power. They find a spell on a scroll or an enchanted item that is farbeyond their understanding, yet they try it anyway, only to be consumedby the powerful magic. Too many priests in the Realms, and too many religious sects in general, ask of themselves and of their congregations only

 humble servitude.

 All of them are doomed to fail in the true test of happiness. There is oneingredient missing in stumbling upon an unguarded treasure hoard; thereis one element absent when a minor wizard lays his hands on an arch- mage's staff; there is one item unaccounted for in humble, unquestioning,and unambitious servitude.

 A sense of accomplishment.

 It is the most important ingredient in any rational being's formula ofhappiness. It is the element that builds confidence and allows us to go on toother, greater tasks. It is the item that promotes a sense of self-worth, thatallows any person to believe there is value in life itself, that gives a sense of purpose to bolster us as we face life's unanswerable questions.

 So it was with Catti-brie and her sword. This battle had found her, andshe had determined to fight it. Had I followed my protective instincts, Iwould have refused to aid her in taking on this quest. My protectiveinstincts told me to go to Bruenor, who would have surely ordered the sentient sword destroyed. By doing that, or taking any other course to preventCatti-brie's battle, I would have, in effect, failed to trust in her, failed torespect her individual needs and her chosen destiny, and, thus, I wouldhave stolen a bit of her freedom. That had been Wulfgar's single failure. In his fears for the woman he so dearly loved, the brave and proud barbarianhad tried to smother her in his protective hug.

 I think he saw the truth of his error in the moments before his death. Ithink he remembered then the reasons he loved Catti-brie: her strength andindependence. How ironic it is that our instincts often run exactly opposite from what we truly desire for those we love.

 In the situation I earlier named, the parents would have to let theirchild go to Waterdeep and the Sword Coast. And so it was with Catti-brie.She chose to take her sword, chose to explore its sentient side, perhaps atgreat personal risk. The decision was hers to make, and once she had made it, I had to respect it, had to respect her. I didn't see her much over the nextcouple of weeks, as she waged her private battle.

 But I thought of her and worried for her every waking moment, andeven in my dreams.

 —Drizzt Do'Urden

 Chapter 12

 WORTH THE TROUBLES

 "I have tricked tanar'ri to go to your city, Menzoberranzan, and soon I must force them back," the greatErrtu roared. "And I cannot even go to this place andjoin in their havoc, or even to retrieve them!" Thebalor sat on his mushroom throne, watching the scrying devicethat showed him the city of drow. Earlier, he was receiving fleeting images only, as this magic, too, struggled against the effectsof the strange time. The images had been coming more stronglylately, though, and now the mirrorlike surface was uncloudy,showing a clear scene of House Oblodra, wedged between thefingers of the Clawrift. Fiends great and minor stalked andswooped about the walled compound, banging strong fistsagainst the stone, hurling threats and missiles of rock. The Oblodrans had buttoned the place up tightly, for even with theirpsionic powers, and the fact that the fiends' magic fared no better than anyone else's, the otherworldly beasts were simply toophysically strong, their minds too warped by evil to be muchaffected by telepathic barrages.

 And they were backed by a united army of drow, lying in wait

 behind the fiendish lines. Hundreds of crossbows and javelinswere pointed House Oblodra's way. Scores of drow riding sticky-footed subterranean lizards stalked the walls and ceiling near the doomed house. Any Oblodran that showed her face would be hitby a barrage from every angle.

 "Those same fiends are preventing the third house from beingattacked," Errtu snarled at Lloth, reminding the Spider Queenwhose army was in control here. "Your minions fear my minions,and rightly so!"

 The beautiful drow, back in the Abyss once more, understoodthat Errtu's outburst was one part outrage and nine parts bluster.No tanar'ri ever had to be "tricked" into going to the MaterialPlane, where it might wreak havoc. That was their very nature,the most profound joy in their miserable existence.

 "You ask much, Lady of Spiders," Errtu grumbled on.

 "I give much in return," Lloth reminded him.

 "We shall see. "

 Lloth's red-glowing eyes narrowed at the tanar'ri's continuing sarcasm. The payment she had offered Errtu, a gift that couldpotentially free the fiend from nearly a century more of banishment, was no small thing.

 "The four glabrezu will be difficult to retrieve," Errtu wenton, feigning exasperation, playing this out to the extreme. "Theyare always difficult!"

 "No more so than a balor," Lloth said in blunt response. Errtu turned on her, his face a mask of hatred.

 "The Time of Troubles nears its end," Lloth said calmly into that dangerous visage.

 "It has been too long!" Errtu roared.

 Lloth ignored the tone of the comment, understanding thatErrtu had to act outraged and overburdened to prevent her fromconcluding that the tanar'ri owed her something more. "It hasbeen longer to my eyes than to your own, fiend," the SpiderQueen retorted.

 Errtu muttered a curse under his smelly breath.

 "But it nears its end," Lloth went on, quietly, calmly. Both sheand Errtu looked to the image on the scrying surface just as agreat winged tanar'ri soared up out of the Clawrift, clutching asmall, wriggling creature in one of its great fists. The pitiful catch

  

 could not have been more than three feet tall and seemed lessthan that in the massive fiend's clutches. It wore a ragged vestthat did not hide its rust-colored scales, a vest made even moreragged from the tearing of the tanar'ri's clawed grasp.

 "A kobold," Errtu remarked.

 "Known allies of House Oblodra," Lloth explained. "Thousands of the wretches run the tunnels along the chasm walls. "

 The flying tanar'ri gave a hoot, grasped the kobold with itsother clawed hand as well, and ripped the squealing thing in half.

 "One less ally of House Oblodra," Errtu whispered, and from the pleased look on the balor's face, Lloth understood Errtu's true feelings about this whole event. The great tanar'ri was living vicariously through his minions, was watching their destructiveantics and feeding off the scene.

 It crossed Lloth's mind to reconsider her offered gift. Why should she repay the fiend for doing something it so obviouslywanted to do?

 The Spider Queen, never a fool, shook the thoughts from hermind. She had nothing to lose in giving Errtu what she hadpromised. Her eyes were set on the conquest of Mithril Hall, onforcing Matron Baenre to extend her grasp so that the city of drowwould be less secure, and more chaotic, more likely to see inter-house warfare. The renegade Do'Urden was nothing to her,though she surely wanted him dead.

 Who better to do that than Errtu? Lloth wondered. Even if the renegade survived the coming war—and Lloth did not believe hewould—Errtu could use her gift to force Drizzt to call him fromhis banishment, to allow him back to the Material Plane. Oncethere, the mighty balor's first goal would undoubtedly be to exactvengeance on the renegade. Drizzt had beaten Errtu once, but noone ever defeated a balor the second time around.

 Lloth knew Errtu well enough to understand that DrizztDo'Urden would be far luckier indeed if he died swiftly in thecoming war.

 She said no more about the payment for the fiend's aid,understanding that in giving it to Errtu, she was, in effect, givingherself a present. "When the Time of Troubles has passed, mypriestesses will aid you in forcing the tanar'ri back to the Abyss,"Lloth said.

 Errtu did not hide his surprise well. He knew that Lloth had been planning some sort of campaign, and he assumed his monstrous minions would be sent along beside the drow army. Nowthat Lloth had clearly stated her intentions, though, the fiend recognized her reasoning. If a horde of tanar'ri marched beside the drow, all the Realms would rise against them, including goodlycreatures of great power from the upper planes.

 Also, both Lloth and Errtu knew well that the drow priestesses, powerful as they were, would not be able to control such a horde once the rampage of warfare had begun.

 "All but one," Errtu corrected.

 Lloth eyed him curiously.

 "I will need an emissary to go to Drizzt Do'Urden," the fiendexplained. "To tell the fool what I have, and what I require inexchange for it. "

 Lloth considered the words for a moment. She had to play thisout carefully. She had to hold Errtu back, she knew, or risk complicating what should be a relatively straightforward conquest ofthe dwarven halls, but she could not let the fiend know herarmy's destination. If Errtu thought Lloth's minions would soonput Drizzt Do'Urden, the great fiend's only chance at getting backto the Material Plane anytime soon, in jeopardy, he wouldcovertly oppose her.

 "Not yet," the Spider Queen said. "Drizzt Do'Urden is out of the way, and there he shall stay until my city is back in order. "

 "Menzoberranzan is never in order," Errtu replied slyly.

 "In relative order," Lloth corrected. "You will have your gift when I give it, and only then will you send your emissary. "

 "Lady of Spiders..." The balor growled threateningly.

 "The Time of Troubles nears its end," Lloth snapped in Errtu'sugly face. "My powers return in full. Beware your threats, balor, else you shall find yourself in a more wretched place than this!"

 Her purplish black robes flying furiously behind her, the Spider Queen spun about sharply and moved off, swiftly disappearing into the swirling mist. She smirked at the proper ending to themeeting. Diplomacy went only so far with chaotic fiends. Afterreaching a point, the time inevitably came for open threats.

 Errtu slumped back on his mushroom throne in the realization that Lloth was in full command of this situation. She held the

 link for his minions to the Material Plane, and she held the giftthat might allow Errtu to end his banishment. On top of all ofthat, Errtu did not doubt the Spider Queen's claims that the pantheon was at last sorting itself out. And if the Time of Troubleswas indeed a passing period, and Lloth's powers returned in full,she was far beyond the balor.

 Resignedly, Errtu looked back to the image on the scrying surface. Five more kobolds had been pulled up from the Clawrift.They huddled together in a tight group while a host of fiends circled about them, teasing them, tormenting them. The great balor could smell their fear, could taste this torturous kill as sweetly asif he were among those circling fiends.

 Errtu's mood brightened immediately.

 *****

 Belwar Dissengulp and a score of svirfnebli warriors sat on aledge, overlooking a large chamber strewn with boulders and stalactites. Each held a rope—Belwar's was fastened through a loopon his belt and a mushroom-hide strap set over his pickaxehand—that they might rappel quickly to the floor. For downbelow, the gnomish priests were at work, drawing runes of poweron the floor with heated dyes and discussing the prior failures and the most effective ways they might combine their powers,both for the summoning, and in case the summoning, as had happened twice already, went bad.

 The gnomish priests had heard the call of their god, Segojan,had sensed the returning of priestly magic. For the svirfnebli, noact could greater signify the end of this strange period, no actcould better assure them that all was right once more, than the summoning of an elemental earth giant. This was their sphere, their life, and their love. They were attuned to the rock, at onewith the stone and dirt that surrounded their dwellings. To call anelemental forth, to share in its friendship, would satisfy thepriests that their god was well. Anything less would not suffice.

 They had tried several times. The first summoning hadbrought forth nothing, not a trembling in the ground. The second,third, and fourth had raised tall stone pillars, but they had shownno signs of animation. Three of the stalagmite mounds in this very

 chamber were testaments to those failures.

 On the fifth try, an elemental had come forth, and the gnomishpriests had rejoiced—until the monster turned on them in rage, killing a dozen gnomes before Belwar and his troupe had managed to break it apart. That failure was perhaps the very worstthing that could befall the gnomes, for they came to believe notonly that Segojan was out of their reach, but that, perhaps, he wasangry with them. They had tried again—and again the elementalcame forth only to attack them.

 Belwar's defenses were better in place that sixth time, as theywere now, and the stone-limbed monster was beaten back quickly,with no loss of svirfnebli.

 After that second disaster, Belwar had asked that the priestswait a while before trying again, but they had refused, desperateto find Segojan's favor, desperate to know that their god was withthem. Belwar was not without influence, though, and he had goneto King Schnicktick and forced a compromise.

 Five days had passed since that sixth summoning, five dayswherein the gnomish priests and all of Blingdenstone had prayed to Segojan, had begged him to no longer turn against them.

 Unknown to the svirfnebli, those five days had also seen theend of the Time of Troubles, the realignment and correction of thepantheon.

 Belwar watched now as the robed priests began their danceabout the rune-emblazoned circle they had drawn on the ground.Each carried a stone, a small green gem previously enchanted.One by one, they placed a gem on the perimeter of the circle and crushed it with a huge mallet. When that was completed, the highpriest walked into the circle, to its very center, placed his gem onthe ground, and, crying out a word of completion, smashed itunder his mithril mallet.

 For a moment there was only silence, then the ground beganto tremble slightly. The high priest rushed out of the circle to joinhis huddling companions.

 The trembling increased, multiplied; a large crack ran aboutthe circumference of the enchanted area, separating that circlefrom the rest of the chamber. Inside the circle, rock split apart, andsplit again, rolling and roiling into a malleable mud.

 Bubbles grew and blew apart with great popping sounds; the

 whole chamber warmed.

 A great head—a huge head!—poked up from the floor.

 On the ledge, Belwar and his cohorts groaned. Never had theyseen so tremendous an elemental! Suddenly, they were all plotting escape routes rather than attack routes.

 The shoulders came forth from the floor, an arm on eachside—an arm that could sweep the lot of the priests into oblivionwith a single movement. Curious looks mixed with trepidation onthe faces of priests and warriors alike. This creature was not likeany elemental they had ever seen. Though its stone was smoother,with no cracks showing, it appeared more unfinished, less in theimage of a bipedal creature. Yet, at the same time, it exuded anaura of sheer power and completion beyond anything the gnomes had ever known.

 "The glory of Segojan are we witnessing!" one gnome nearBelwar squealed in glee.

 "Or the end of our people," Belwar added under his breath sothat none would hear.

 By the girth of the head and shoulders, the gnomes expectedthe monster to rise twenty feet or more, but when the tremblingstopped and all was quiet again, the creature barely topped tenfeet—not as tall as many of the elementals even single svirfneblinpriests had previously summoned. Still, the gnomes had no doubtthat this was a greater achievement, that this creature was more powerful than anything they had ever brought forth. The priests had their suspicions—so did Belwar, who had lived a long timeand had listened carefully to the legends that gave his people their identity and their strength.

 "Entemoch!" the most honored burrow warden gasped fromhis perch, and the name, the name of the Prince of Earth Elementals, was echoed from gnome to gnome.

 Another name predictably followed, the name of Ogremoch,Entemoch's evil twin, and it was spoken sharply and with openfear. If this was Ogremoch and not Entemoch, then they all weredoomed.

 The priests fell to their knees, trembling, paying homage, hoping beyond hope that this was indeed Entemoch, who hadalways been their friend.

 Belwar was the first down from the ledge, hitting the ground

 with a grunt and running off to stand before the summoned creature.

 It regarded him from on high, made no move, and offered no sign as to its intentions.

 "Entemoch!" Belwar shouted. Behind him, the priests lifted their faces; some found the courage to stand and walk beside the brave burrow warden.

 "Entemoch!" Belwar called again. "Answered our call, you have. Are we to take this as a sign that all is right with Segojan,that we are in his favor?"

 The creature brought its huge hand to the floor, palm up,before Belwar. The burrow warden looked to the high prieststanding at his right.

 The priest nodded. "To trust in Segojan is our duty," he said,and he and Belwar stepped onto the hand together.

 Up they rose, coming to a stop right before the behemoth'sface. And they relaxed and were glad, for they saw compassionthere, and friendship. This was indeed Entemoch, they both knewin their hearts, and not Ogremoch, and Segojan was with them.

 The elemental prince lifted its hand above its head and meltedback into the ground, leaving Belwar and the high priest in thecenter of the circle, perfectly reformed.

 Cheers resounded through the chamber; more than onerough-hewn svirfneblin face was streaked with tears. The priestspatted themselves on the back, congratulated themselves and allthe gnomes of Blingdenstone. They sang praises to King Schnicktick, whose guidance had led them to this pinnacle of svirfneblinachievement.

 For at least one of them, Belwar, the celebration was shortlived. Their god was back with them, it seemed, and their magic was returning, but what did that mean for the drow of Menzoberranzan? the most honored burrow warden wondered. Was theSpider Queen, too, returned? And the powers of the drow wizards as well?

 Before all of this had begun, the gnomes had come to believe,and not without reason, that the drow were planning for war.With the onset of this chaotic time, that war had not come, butthat was reasonable, Belwar knew, since the drow were moredependent on magic than were the gnomes. If things were indeedaright once more, as the arrival of Entemoch seemed to indicate,

 then Blingdenstone might soon be threatened.

 All about the most honored burrow warden, gnomish priestsand warriors danced and cried out for joy. How soon, he wondered, might those cries be screams of pain or shrieks of grief?

 Chapter 13

 REPAIRING THE DAMAGE

 "Delicately!" Fret whispered harshly, watching Drizzt'shands as the drow scraped and chipped away the driedsalve around the neck of the panther figurine. "Oh, dobe careful!"

 Of course Drizzt was being careful! As careful as the drow hadever been in any task. As important as the figurine appeared to be toFret, it was a hundred times more important to Drizzt, who treasured and loved his panther companion. Never had the drow takenon a more critical task, not with his wits or his weapons. Now heused the delicate tool Fret had given him, a slender silver rod with a flattened and slightly hooked end.

 Another piece of salve fell away—almost a half inch along the sideof the panther's neck was clear of the stuff. And clear of any crack,Drizzt noted hopefully. So perfectly had the salve bonded the onyx figurine that not a line could be seen where the break had been.

 Drizzt sublimated his excitement, understanding that it wouldinevitably lead him to rush in his work. He had to take his time. The circumference of the figurine's neck was no more than a few inches,but Drizzt fully expected, and Fret had agreed with the estimate,

 that he would spend the entire morning at his work.

 The drow ranger moved back from the figurine so that Fretcould see the cleared area. The tidy dwarf nodded to Drizzt afterviewing it, even smiled hopefully. Fret trusted in Lady Alustriel'smagic and her ability to mend a tragedy.

 With a pat on Drizzt's shoulder, the dwarf moved aside and Drizztwent back to work, slowly and delicately, one tiny fleck at a time.

 By noon, the neck was clear of salve. Drizzt turned the figurineover in his hands, studying the area where the break had been, seeing no indication, neither a crack nor any residue from the salve,that the figurine had been damaged. He clasped the item by thehead and, after a deep, steadying breath, dared to hold it aloft, withall the pressure of its weight centered on the area of the cut.

 It held fast. Drizzt shook his hand, daring it to break apart, but itdid not.

 "The bonding will be as strong as any other area on the item,"Fret assured the drow. "Take heart that the figurine is whole oncemore. "

 "Agreed," Drizzt replied, "but what of its magic?"

 Fret had no answer.

 "The real challenge will be in sending Guenhwyvar home to theAstral Plane," the drow went on.

 "Or in calling the panther back," Fret added.

 That notion stung Drizzt. The tidy dwarf was right, he knew. Hemight be able to open a tunnel to allow Guenhwyvar to returnhome, only to have the panther lost to him forever. Still, Drizztentertained no thoughts of keeping the cat beside him. Guenhwyvar's condition had stabilized—apparently the panther couldindeed remain on the Material Plane indefinitely—but the great catwas not in good health or good spirits. While she seemed no longer in danger of dying, Guenhwyvar roamed about in a state of perpetual exhaustion, muscles slack along her once sleek sides, eyes oftenclosed as the panther tried to find desperately needed sleep.

 "Better to dismiss Guenhwyvar to her home," Drizzt said determinedly. "Surely my life will be diminished if I cannot recall Guenhwyvar, but better that than the life Guenhwyvar must now endure. "

 They went together, the figurine in hand, to Drizzt's room. As usual, Guenhwyvar lay on the rug in front of the hearth, absorbing the heat of the glowing embers. Drizzt didn't hesitate. He marched

 right up before the panther—who lifted her head sluggishly toregard him—and placed the figurine on the floor before her.

 "Lady Alustriel, and good Fret here, have come to our aid,Guenhwyvar," Drizzt announced. His voice quivered a bit as hetried to continue, as the realization hit him that this might be the lasttime he ever saw the panther.

 Guenhwyvar sensed that discomfort and, with great effort, managed to sit up, putting her head in line with kneeling Drizzt's face.

 "Go home, my friend," Drizzt whispered, "go home. "

 The panther hesitated, eyeing the drow intently, as if trying todiscern the source of Drizzt's obvious unease. Guenhwyvar, too, gotthe feeling—from Drizzt and not from the figurine, which seemedwhole to the panther once more—that this might be a final partingof dear friends.

 But the cat had no control in the matter. In her exhausted state,Guenhwyvar could not have ignored the call of the magic if shetried. Shakily, the cat got to her feet and paced about the figurine.

 Drizzt was both thrilled and scared when Guenhwyvar's formbegan to melt away into gray mist, then into nothing at all.

 When the cat was gone, Drizzt scooped up the figurine, takingheart that he felt no warmth coming from it, that apparently whatever had gone wrong the last time he tried to send Guenhwyvarhome was not happening again. He realized suddenly how foolishhe had been, and looked at Fret, his violet orbs wide with shock.

 "What is it?" the tidy dwarf asked.

 "I have not Catti-brie's sword!" Drizzt whispered harshly. "Ifthe path is not clear to the Astral Plane... "

 "The magic is right once more," Fret replied at once, patting hishand soothingly in the air, "in the figurine and in all the worldabout us. The magic is right once more. "

 Drizzt held the figurine close. He had no idea of where Catti-brie might be, and knew she had her sword with her. All he coulddo, then, was sit tight, wait, and hope.

 *****

 Bruenor sat on his throne, Regis beside him, and the halflinglooking much more excited than the dwarf king. Regis had alreadyseen the guests that would soon be announced to Bruenor, and

 curious Regis was always happy to see the extraordinary Harpellsof Longsaddle. Four of them had come to Mithril Hall, four wizardswho might play an important role in defending the dwarven complex—if they didn't inadvertently take the place down instead.

 Such were the risks of dealing with the Harpells.

 The four stumbled into the throne room, nearly running downthe poor dwarf who had first entered to announce them. There wasHarkle, of course, wearing a bandage about his face, for his eyes were already in Mithril Hall. Guiding him was fat Regweld, whohad ridden into the outer hall on a curious mount, the front ofwhich resembled a horse and the back of which had hind legs and aback end more akin to a frog. Regweld had appropriately named the thing Puddlejumper.

 The third Harpell Bruenor and Regis did not know, and the wizard did not offer his name. He merely growled low and nodded intheir direction.

 "I am Bella don DelRoy Harpell," announced the fourth, a shortand quite beautiful young woman, except that her eyes did not lookin the same direction. Both orbs were green, but one shined with afierce inner light, while the other was dulled over and grayish. WithBella, though, that seemed to only add to her appearance, to giveher fine features a somewhat exotic look.

 Bruenor recognized one of the given names, and understoodthat Bella was probably the leader of this group. "Daughter of Del-Roy, leader of Longsaddle?" the dwarf asked, to which the petitewoman dipped low in a bow, so low that her bright blond manenearly swept the floor.

 "Greetings from Longsaddle, Eighth King of Mithril Hall," Bellasaid politely. "Your call was not unheeded. "

 A pity, Bruenor thought, but he remained tactfully quiet.

 "With me are—"

 "Harkle and Regweld," Regis interrupted, knowing the twoquite well from a previous stay in Longsaddle. "Well met! And it isgood to see that your experiments in crossbreeding a horse and afrog came to fruition. "

 "Puddlejumper!" the normally forlorn Regweld happilyreplied.

 That name promised a sight that Regis would like to see!

 "I am the daughter of DelRoy," Bella said rather sharply, eyeing

 the halfling squarely. "Please do not interrupt again, or I shall haveto turn you into something Puddlejumper would enjoy eating. "

 The sparkle in her good green eye as she regarded Regis, andthe similar glint in the halfling's gray orbs, told Regis that the threatwas a hollow one. He heeded it anyway, suddenly anxious to keepon Bella's good side. She wasn't five feet tall, the halfling realized,and a bit on the heavy side, somewhat resembling a slightly larger version of Regis himself—except that there was no mistaking herfeminine attributes. At least, not for Regis.

 "My third companion is Bidderdoo," Bella went on.

 The name sounded curiously familiar to both Bruenor andRegis, and came perfectly clear when Bidderdoo answered the introduction with a bark.

 Bruenor groaned; Regis clapped and laughed aloud. When theyhad gone through Longsaddle, on their way to find Mithril Hall,Bidderdoo, through use of a bad potion, had played the role of theHarpell family dog.

 "The transformation is not yet complete," Bella apologized, andshe gave Bidderdoo a quick backhand on the shoulder, remindinghim to put his tongue back in his mouth.

 Harkle cleared his throat loudly and fidgeted about.

 "Of course," Bruenor said immediately, taking the cue. Thedwarf gave a sharp whistle, and one of his attendants came out of aside room, carrying the disembodied eyes, one in each hand. To hiscredit, the dwarf tried to keep them as steady as possible, and aimed them both in Harkle's direction.

 "Oh, it is so good to see myself again!" the wizard exclaimed,and he spun about. Following what he could see, he started for himself, or for his eyes, or for the back wall, actually, and the door he and his companions had already come through. He cried out, "No, no!" and turned a complete circle, trying to get his bearing, whichwasn't an easy thing while viewing himself from across the room.

 Bruenor groaned again.

 "It is so confusing!" an exasperated Harkle remarked as Reg-weld grabbed him and tried to turn him aright.

 "Ah, yes," the wizard said, and turned back the wrong wayonce more, heading for the door.

 "The other way!" frustrated Regweld cried.

 Bruenor grabbed the dwarven attendant and took the eyes,

 turning them both to look directly into his own scowling visage.

 Harkle screamed.

 "Hey!" Bruenor roared. "Turn around. "

 Harkle calmed himself and did as instructed, his body facingBruenor once more.

 Bruenor looked to Regis, snickered, and tossed one of the eyesHarkle's way, then followed it a split second later with the other,snapping his wrist so the thing spun as it soared through the air.

 Harkle screamed again and fainted.

 Regweld caught one of the eyes; Bidderdoo went for the otherwith his mouth. Luckily, Bella cut him off. She missed though, and the eye bounced off her arm, fell to the floor, and rolled about.

 "That was very naughty, King Dwarf!" the daughter of DelRoyscolded. "That was..." She couldn't maintain the facade, and wassoon laughing, as were her companions (though Bidderdoo's chuckles sounded more like a growl). Regis joined in, and Bruenor, too,but only for a second. The dwarf king could not forget the fact that these bumbling wizards might be his only magical defense againstan army of dark elves.

 It was not a pleasant thought.

 *   *   *  *   *

 Drizzt was out of Mithril Hall at dawn the next morning. Hehad seen a campfire on the side of the mountain the night before and knew it was Catti-brie's. He still had not tried calling Guenhwyvar back and resisted the urge now, reminding himself to takeon one problem at a time.

 The problem now was Catti-brie, or, more specifically, hersword.

 He found the young woman as he came around a bend in thepath, crossing into the shadow between two large boulders. She wasalmost directly below him, on a small, flat clearing overlooking the wide, rolling terrain east of Mithril Hall. With the rising sun breaking the horizon directly before her, Drizzt could make out only hersilhouette. Her movements were graceful as she walked through apractice dance with her sword, waving it in slow, long lines beforeand above her. Drizzt rested and watched approvingly of both thegrace and perfection of the woman's dance. He had shown her this,

 and, as always, Catti-brie had learned well. She could have been hisown shadow, Drizzt realized, so perfect and synchronous were her movements.

 He let her continue, both because of the importance of this practice and because he enjoyed watching her.

 Finally, after nearly twenty minutes, Catti-brie took a deepbreath and held her arms out high and wide, reveling in the risingsun.

 "Well done," Drizzt congratulated, walking down to her.

 Catti-brie nearly jumped at the sound, and she spun about, a bit embarrassed and annoyed, to see the drow.

 "Ye should warn a girl," she said.

 "I came upon you quite by accident," Drizzt lied, "but fortunately it would seem. "

 "I seen the Harpells go into Mithril Hall yesterday," Catti-brie replied. "Have ye speaked with them?"

 Drizzt shook his head. "They are not important right now," heexplained. "I need only to speak with you. "

 It sounded serious. Catti-brie moved to slide her sword into itsscabbard, but Drizzt's hand came out, motioning for her to stop.

 "I have come for the sword," he explained.

 "Khazid'hea?" Catti-brie asked, surprised.

 "What?" asked the even more surprised drow.

 "That is its name," Catti-brie explained, holding the fine bladebefore her, its razor-sharp edge glowing red once more."Khazid'hea. "

 Drizzt knew the word, a drow word! It meant "to cut," or "cutter," and seemed an appropriate name indeed for a blade that couldslice through solid stone. But how could Catti-brie know it? thedrow wondered, and his face asked the question as plainly as words ever could.

 "The sword telled me!" Catti-brie answered.

 Drizzt nodded and calmed. He shouldn't have been so surprised—he knew the sword was sentient, after all.

 "Khazid'hea," the drow agreed. He drew Twinkle from itssheath, flipped it over in his hand, and presented it, hilt-first, toCatti-brie.

 She stared at the offering blankly, not understanding.

 "A fair exchange," Drizzt explained, "Twinkle for Khazid'hea. "

  

 "Ye favor the scimitar," Catti-brie said.

 "I will learn to use a scimitar and sword in harmony," Drizztreplied. "Accept the exchange. Khazid'hea has begged that I be itswielder, and I will oblige. It is right that the blade and I are joined. "

 Catti-brie's look went from surprise to incredulity. She couldn'tbelieve Drizzt would demand this of her! She had spent days—weeks!—alone in the mountains, practicing with this sword, connecting with its unnatural intelligence, trying to establish a bond.

 "Have you forgotten our encounter?" Drizzt asked, somewhatcruelly. Catti-brie blushed a deep red. Indeed, she had not forgotten,and never would, and what a fool she felt when she realized howshe—or at least how her sword, using her body—had thrown herself at Drizzt.

 "Give me the sword," Drizzt said firmly, waving Twinkle's hilt before the stunned young woman. "It is right that we are joined. "

 Catti-brie clutched Khazid'hea defensively. She closed her eyesthen, and seemed to sway, and Drizzt got the impression she wascommuning with the blade, hearing its feelings.

 When she opened her eyes once more, Drizzt's free hand movedfor the sword, and, to the drow's surprise and satisfaction, thesword tip came up suddenly, nicking his hand and forcing himback.

 "The sword does not want ye!" Catti-brie practically growled.

 "You would strike me?" Drizzt asked, and his question calmedthe young woman.

 "Just a reaction," she stammered, trying to apologize.

 Just a reaction, Drizzt silently echoed, but exactly the reactionhe had hoped to see. The sword was willing to defend her right towield it; the sword had rejected him in light of its rightful owner.

 In the blink of an eye, Drizzt flipped Twinkle over and replaced it on his belt. His smile clued Catti-brie to the truth of the encounter.

 "A test," she said. "Ye just gived me a test!"

 "It was necessary. "

 "Ye never had any mind to take Khazid'hea," the woman went on, her volume rising with her ire. "Even if I'd taken yer offer... "

 "I would have taken the sword," Drizzt answered honestly."And I would have placed it on display in a secure place in the Hallof Dumathoin. "

 "And ye would have taken back Twinkle," Catti-brie huffed.

  

 "Ye lyin' drow!"

 Drizzt considered the words, then shrugged and nodded hisagreement with the reasoning.

 Catti-brie gave an impertinent pout and tossed her head, whichsent her auburn mane flying over her shoulder. "The sword just knows now that I'm the better fighter," she said, sounding sincere.

 Drizzt laughed aloud.

 "Draw yer blades, then!" Catti-brie huffed, falling back into aready posture. "Let me show ye what me and me sword can do!"

 Drizzt's smile was wide as his scimitars came into his hands.These would be the last and most crucial tests, he knew, to see ifCatti-brie had truly taken control of the sword.

 Metal rang out in the clear morning air, the two friends hoppingabout for position, their breath blowing clouds in the chill air. Soonafter the sparring had begun, Drizzt's guard slipped, presentingCatti-brie with a perfect strike.

 In came Khazid'hea, but it stopped far short, and the youngwoman jumped back. "Ye did that on purpose!" she accused, andshe was right, and by not going for a vicious hit, she and her swordhad passed the second test.

 Only one test to go.

 Drizzt said nothing as he went back into his crouch. He wasn'twearing the bracers, Catti-brie noticed, and so he wouldn't likely beoff balance. She came on anyway, gladly and fiercely, and put up afine fight as the sun broke clear of the horizon and began its slowclimb into the eastern sky.

 She couldn't match the drow, though, and, in truth, hadn't seenDrizzt fight with this much vigor in a long time. When the sparringended, Catti-brie was sitting on her rump, a scimitar resting easily atop each of her shoulders and her own sword lying on the groundseveral feet away.

 Drizzt feared that the sentient sword would be outraged that itswielder had been so clearly beaten. He stepped away from Catti-brie and went to Khazid'hea first, bending low to scoop it up. The drow paused, though, his hand just an inch from the pommel.

 No longer did Khazid'hea wear the pommel of a unicorn, noreven the fiendish visage it had taken when in the hands of DantragBaenre. That pommel resembled a sleek feline body now, somethinglike Guenhwyvar running flat out, legs extended front and back.

  

 More important to Drizzt, though, there was a rune inscribed on theside of that feline, the twin mountains, symbol of Dumathoin, thedwarven god, Catti-brie's god, the Keeper of Secrets Under theMountain.

 Drizzt picked up Khazid'hea, and felt no enmity or any of thedesire the sword had previously shown him. Catti-brie was beside him, then, smiling in regard to his obvious approval of her choicefor a pommel.

 Drizzt handed Khazid'hea back to its rightful owner.

 Chapter 14

 THE WRATH OF LLOTH

 Baenre felt strong again. Lloth was back, and Lloth waswith her, and K'yorl Odran, that wretched K'yorl, had badly erred. Always before, the Spider Queen had keptHouse Oblodra in her favor, even though the so-called"priestesses" of the house were not pious and sometimes openlyexpressed their disdain for Lloth. These strange powers of the Oblodrans, this psionic strength, had intrigued Lloth as much as it hadfrightened the other houses in Menzoberranzan. None of thosehouses wanted a war against K'yorl and her clan, and Lloth hadn'tdemanded one. If Menzoberranzan was ever attacked from the outside, particularly from the illithids, whose cavern lair was not so faraway, K'yorl and the Oblodrans would be of great help.

 But no more. K'yorl had crossed over a very dangerous line. Shehad murdered a matron mother, and, while that in itself was notuncommon, she had intended to usurp power from Lloth's priestesses, and not in the name of the Spider Queen.

 Matron Baenre knew all of this, felt the will and strength ofLloth within her. "The Time of Troubles has passed," she announcedto her family, to everyone gathered in her house, in the nearly

 repaired chapel.

 Mez'Barris Armgo was there as well, in a seat of honor on thecentral dais, at Matron Baenre's personal invitation.

 Matron Baenre took the seat next to the matron mother of thesecond house as the gathered crowd exploded in cheers, and then,led by Triel, in song to the Spider Queen.

 Ended?Mez'Barris asked of Baenre, using the silent hand code,for they could not have been heard above the roar of two thousandBaenre soldiers.

 The Time of Troubles has ended,Baenre's delicate fingersresponded.

 Except for House Oblodra,Mez'Barris reasoned, to which Baenreonly chuckled wickedly. It was no secret in Menzoberranzan thatHouse Oblodra was in serious trouble. No secret indeed, for thetanar'ri and other fiends continued to circle the Oblodran compound, plucking kobolds from the ledges along the Clawrift, evenattacking with abandon any Oblodran who showed herself.

 K'yorl will be forgiven?Mez'Barris asked, popping up her leftthumb at the end of the code to indicate a question.

 Matron Baenre shook her head once briskly, then pointedlylooked away, to Triel, who was leading the gathering in rousingprayers to the Spider Queen.

 Mez'Barris tapped a long, curving fingernail against her teethnervously, wondering how Baenre could be so secure in this decision. Did Baenre plan to go after House Oblodra alone, or did shemean to call Barrison del'Armgo into yet another alliance? Mez'Barris did not doubt that her house and House Baenre could crushHouse Oblodra, but she wasn't thrilled at the prospect of tanglingwith K'yorl and those unexplored powers.

 Methil, invisible and standing off to the side of the dais, read thevisiting matron mother's thoughts easily, and then, in turn,imparted them to Matron Baenre.

 "It is the will of Lloth," Matron Baenre said sharply, turningback to regard Mez'Barris. "K'yorl has denounced the SpiderQueen, and, thus, she will be punished. "

 "By the Academy, as is the custom?" Mez'Barris asked, andhoped.

 A fiery sparkle erupted behind Matron Baenre's red-glowingeyes. "By me," she answered bluntly, and turned away again,

 indicating that Mez'Barris would garner no further information.

 Mez'Barris was wise enough not to press the point. She slumpedback in her chair, trying to sort out this surprising, disturbing information. Matron Baenre had not declared that an alliance of houseswould attack Oblodra; she had declared a personal war. Did shetruly believe she could defeat K'yorl? Or were those fiends, even thegreat tanar'ri, more fully under her control than Mez'Barris hadbeen led to believe? That notion scared the matron mother of Barrison del'Armgo more than a little, for, if it were true, what other"punishments" might the angry and ambitious Matron Baenre handout?

 Mez'Barris sighed deeply and let the thoughts pass. There was little she could do now, sitting in the chapel of House Baenre, surrounded by two thousand Baenre soldiers. She had to trust inBaenre, she knew.

 No, she silently corrected herself, not trust, never that. Mez'Barris had to hope Matron Baenre would think she was more valuableto the cause—whatever it might now be—alive than dead.

 *   *   *  *   *

 Seated atop a blue-glowing driftdisk, Matron Baenre herself led the procession from House Baenre, down from the Qu'ellarz'orl andacross the city, her army singing Lloth's praises every step. The Baenre lizard riders, Berg'inyon in command, flanked the mainbody, sweeping in and around the other house compounds toensure that no surprises would block the trail.

 It was a necessary precaution whenever the first matron motherwent out, but Matron Baenre did not fear any ambush, not now.With the exception of Mez'Barris Armgo, no others had been told ofthe Baenre march, and certainly the lesser houses, either alone or inunison, would not dare to strike at the first house unless the attackhad been perfectly coordinated.

 From the opposite end of the great cavern came another procession, also led by a Baenre. Triel, Gromph, and the other mistressesand masters of the drow Academy came from their structures, leading their students, every one. Normally it was this very force, thepowerful Academy, that exacted punishment on an individualhouse for crimes against Menzoberranzan, but this time Triel had

  

 informed her charges that they would come only to watch, to see the glory of Lloth revealed.

 By the time the two groups joined the gathering already in placeat the Clawrift, their numbers had swelled five times over. Noblesand soldiers from every house in the city turned out to watch thespectacle as soon as they came to understand that House Baenre andHouse Oblodra would finish this struggle once and for all.

 When they arrived before the front gates of House Oblodra, theBaenre soldiers formed a defensive semicircle behind MatronBaenre, shielding her, not from K'yorl and the Odran family, butfrom the rest of the gathering. There was much whispering, drowhands flashed frantically in heated conversations, and the fiends,understanding that some calamity was about to come, whipped intoa frenzy, swooping across the Oblodran compound, even exercising their returned magic with an occasional bolt of blue-white lightningor a fireball.

 Matron Baenre let the display continue for several minutes, realizing the terror it caused within the doomed compound. She wantedto savor this moment above all others, wanted to bask in the smellof terror emanating from the compound of that most hated family.

 Then it was time to begin—or to finish, actually. Baenre knewwhat she must do. She had seen it in a vision during the ceremony preceding the war, and despite the doubts of Mez'Barris when she had shared it with her, Baenre held faith in the Spider Queen, held faith that it was Lloth's will that House Oblodra be devoured.

 She reached under her robes and produced a piece of sulphur,the same yellow lump the avatar had given her to allow the priestesses to open the gate to the Abyss in the small room at the back ofthe Qu'ellarz'orl. Baenre thrust her hand skyward, and up into theair she floated. There came a great crackling explosion, a rumble ofthunder.

 All was suddenly silent, all eyes turned to the specter of Matron Baenre, hovering twenty feet off the cavern floor.

 Berg'inyon, responsible for his mother's security, looked toSos'Umptu, his expression sour. He thought his mother was terriblyvulnerable up there.

 Sos'Umptu laughed at him. He was not a priestess; he could notunderstand that Matron Baenre was more protected at that momentthan at any other time in her long life.

  

 "K'yorl Odran!" Baenre called, and her voice seemed magnified, like the voice of a giant.

 *****

 Locked in a room in the highest level of the tallest stalagmitemound within the Oblodran compound, K'yorl Odran heardBaenre's call, heard it clearly. Her hands gripped tight on herthrone's carved marble arms. She squeezed her eyes shut, as sheordered herself to concentrate.

 Now, above any other time, K'yorl needed her powers, andnow, for the first time, she could not access them! Something was terribly wrong, she knew, and though she believed that Lloth mustsomehow be behind this, she sensed, as many of the Spider Queen'spriestesses had sensed when the Time of Troubles had begun, thatthis trouble was beyond even Lloth.

 The problems had begun soon after K'yorl had been chasedback to her house by the loosed tanar'ri. She and her daughters hadgathered to formulate an attack plan to drive off the fiends. Asalways with the efficient Oblodran meetings, the group shared itsthoughts telepathically, the equivalent of holding several understandable conversations at once.

 The defense plan was coming together well—K'yorl grew confident that the tanar'ri would be sent back to their own plane of existence, and when that was accomplished, she and her family couldgo and properly punish Matron Baenre and the others. Then something terrible had happened. One of the tanar'ri had thrown forth ablast of lightning, a searing, blinding bolt that sent a crack running along the outer wall of the Oblodran compound. That in itself wasnot so bad; the compound, like all the houses of Menzoberranzan,could take a tremendous amount of punishment, but what the blast,what the return of magical powers, signified, was disastrous to theOblodrans.

 At that same moment, the telepathic conversation had abruptlyended, and try as they may, the nobles of the doomed house couldnot begin it anew.

 K'yorl was as intelligent as any drow in Menzoberranzan. Herpowers of concentration were unparalleled. She felt the psionicstrength within her mind, the powers that allowed her to walk

 through walls or yank the beating heart from an enemy's chest.They were there, deep in her mind, but she could not bring themforth. She continued to blame herself, her lack of concentration inthe face of disaster. She even punched herself on the side of thehead, as if that physical jarring would knock out some magical manifestation.

 Her efforts were futile. As the Time of Troubles had come to itsend, as the tapestry of magic in the Realms had rewoven, many rippling side-effects had occurred. Throughout the Realms, dead magiczones had appeared, areas where no spells would function, or, evenworse, where no spells would function as intended. Another ofthose side-effects involved psionic powers, the magiclike powers ofthe mind. The strength was still there, as K'yorl sensed, but bringingforth that strength required a different mental route than before.

 The illithids, as Methil had informed Matron Baenre, hadalready discerned that route, and their powers were functioningnearly as completely as before. But they were an entire race of psionicists, and a race possessed of communal intelligence. The illithidshad already made the necessary adjustments to accessing theirpsionic powers, but K'yorl Odran and her once powerful family hadnot.

 So the matron of the third house sat in the darkness, eyessqueezed tightly shut, concentrating. She heard Baenre's call, knewthat if she did not go to Baenre, Baenre would soon come to her.

 Given time, K'yorl would have sorted through the mental puzzle. Given a month, perhaps, she would have begun to bring forthher powers once more.

 K'yorl didn't have a month; K'yorl didn't have an hour.

 *****

 Matron Baenre felt the pulsing magic within the lump of sulphur, an inner heat, fast-building in intensity. She was amazed asher hand shifted, as the sulphur implored her to change the angle.

 Baenre nodded. She understood then that some force frombeyond the Material Plane, some creature of the Abyss, and perhapseven Lloth herself, was guiding the movement. Up went her hand,putting the pulsing lump in line with the top level of the highesttower in the Oblodran compound.

  

 "Who are you?" she asked.

 I am Errtu,came a reply in her mind. Baenre knew the name,knew the creature was a balor, the most terrible and powerful of alltanar'ri. Lloth had armed her well!

 She felt the pure malice of the connected creature buildingwithin the sulphur, felt the energy growing to where she thoughtthe lump would explode, probably bringing Errtu to her side.

 That could not happen, of course, though she did not know it.

 It was the power of the artifact itself she felt, that seeminglyinnocuous piece of sulphur, imbued with the magic of Lloth,wielded by the highest priestess of the Spider Queen in all of Menzoberranzan.

 Purely on instinct, Baenre flattened her hand, and the sulphursent forth a line of glowing, crackling yellow light. It struck the wallhigh on the Oblodran tower, the very wall between K'yorl andBaenre. Lines of light and energy encircled the stalagmite mound,crackling, biting into the stone, stealing the integrity of the place.

 The sulphur went quiet again, its bolt of seemingly live energy freed, but Baenre did not lower her hand and did not take her awestruck stare from the tower wall.

 Neither did the ten thousand dark elves that stood behind her.Neither did K'yorl Odran, who could suddenly see the yellow lines of destruction as they ate their way through the stone.

 All in the city gasped as one as the tower's top exploded intodust and was blown away.

 There sat K'yorl, still atop her black marble throne, suddenly inthe open, staring down at the tremendous gathering.

 Many winged tanar'ri swooped about the vulnerable matronmother, but they did not approach too closely, wisely fearing thewrath of Errtu should they steal even a moment of his fun.

 K'yorl, always proud and strong, rose from her throne andwalked to the edge of the tower. She surveyed the gathering, and sorespectful were many drow, even matron mothers, of her strangepowers, that they turned away when they felt her scrutinizing gazeon them, as though she, from on high, was deciding who she wouldpunish for this attack.

 Finally K'yorl's gaze settled on Matron Baenre, who did notflinch and did not turn away.

 "You dare!" K'yorl roared down, but her voice seemed small.

 "Youdare!" Matron Baenre yelled back, the power of her voiceechoing off the walls of the cavern. "You have forsaken the SpiderQueen. "

 "To the Abyss with Lloth, where she rightly belongs!" stubbornK'yorl replied, the last words she ever spoke.

 Baenre thrust her hand higher and felt the next manifestation ofpower, the opening of an interplanar gate. No yellow light cameforth, no visible force at all, but K'yorl felt it keenly.

 She tried to call out in protest, but could say nothing beyond a whimper and a gurgle as her features suddenly twisted, elongated.She tried to resist, dug her heels in, and concentrated once more on bringing forth her powers.

 K'yorl felt her skin being pulled free of her bones, felt her entireform being stretched out of shape, elongated, as the sulphur pulledat her with undeniable strength. Stubbornly she held on through the incredible agony, through the horrible realization of her doom. Sheopened her mouth, wanting to utter one more damning curse, but all that came out was her tongue, pulled to its length and beyond.

 K'yorl felt her entire body stretching down from the tower,reaching for the sulphur and the gate. She should have been already dead; she knew she should have already died under the tremendous pressure.

 Matron Baenre held her hand steady, but could not help closingher eyes, as K'yorl's weirdly elongated form suddenly flew from thetop of the broken tower, soaring straight for her.

 Several drow, Berg'inyon included, screamed, others gaspedagain, and still others called to the glory of Lloth, as K'yorl,stretched and narrowed so that she resembled a living spear,entered the sulphur, the gate that would take her to the Abyss, toErrtu, Lloth's appointed agent of torture.

 Behind K'yorl came the fiends, with a tremendous fanfare, roaring and loosing bolts of lightning against the Oblodran compound, igniting balls of exploding fire and other blinding displays of theirpower. Compelled by Errtu, they stretched and thinned and flewinto the sulphur, and Matron Baenre held on against her terror,transforming it into a sensation of sheer power.

 In a few moments, all the fiends, even the greatest tanar'ri, weregone. Matron Baenre felt their presence still, transformed somehowwithin the sulphur.

 Suddenly, it was quiet once more. Many dark elves looked toeach other, wondering if the punishment was complete, wondering if House Oblodra would be allowed to survive under a new leader.Nobles from several different houses flashed signals to each otherexpressing their concern that Baenre would now put one of her owndaughters in command of the third house, further sealing her ultimate position within the city.

 But Baenre had no such thoughts. This was a punishmentdemanded by Lloth, a complete punishment, as terrible as anythingthat had ever been exacted on a house in Menzoberranzan. Againheeding the telepathic instructions of Errtu, Matron Baenre hurledthe throbbing piece of sulphur into the Clawrift, and when cheerswent up about her, the dark elves thinking the ceremony complete,she raised her arms out wide and commanded them all to witnessthe wrath of Lloth.

 They felt the first rumblings within the Clawrift beneath theirfeet. A few anxious moments passed, too quiet, too hushed.

 One of K'yorl's daughters appeared on the open platform atopthe broken tower. She ran to the edge, calling, pleading, to MatronBaenre. A moment later, when Baenre gave no response, she happened to glance to the side, to one of the fingerlike chasms of thegreat Clawrift.

 Wide went her eyes, and her scream was as terrified as anydrow had ever heard. From the higher vantage point offered by herlevitation spell, Matron Baenre followed the gaze and was next to react, throwing her arms high and wide and crying out to her goddess in ecstacy. A moment later, the gathering understood.

 A huge black tentacle snaked over the rim of the Clawrift, wriggling its way behind the Oblodran compound. Like a wave, darkelves fell back, stumbling all over each other, as the twenty-foot-thick monstrosity came around the back, along the side, and thenalong the front wall, back toward the chasm.

 "Baenre!" pleaded the desperate, doomed Oblodran.

 "You have denied Lloth," the first matron mother repliedcalmly. "Feel her wrath!"

 The ground beneath the cavern trembled slightly as the tentacle,the angry hand of Lloth, tightened its grasp on the Oblodran compound. The wall buckled and collapsed as the thing began its steadysweep.

 K'yorl's daughter leaped from the tower as it, too, began tocrumble. She cleared the tentacle, and was still alive, though broken,on the ground when a group of dark elves got to her. UthegentalArmgo was among that group, and the mighty weapon masterpushed aside the others, preventing them from finishing the pitifulcreature off. He hoisted the Odran in his powerful arms, and,through bleary eyes, the battered female regarded him, even managed a faint smile, as though she expected he had come out to saveher.

 Uthegental laughed at her, lifted her above his head and ran forward, heaving her over the side of the tentacle, back into the rollingrubble that had been her house.

 The cheers, the screams, were deafening, and so was the rumbleas the tentacle swept all that had been House Oblodra, all the structures and all the drow, into the chasm.

 Chapter 15

 GREED

 The mercenary shook his bald head, as defiant an act ashe had ever made against Matron Baenre. At thismoment, so soon after the first matron mother's awesome display of power, and given the fact that she wasobviously in the Spider Queen's highest favor, Jarlaxle's questioningof her plans seemed even more dangerous.

 Triel Baenre sneered at Jarlaxle, and Berg'inyon closed his eyes; neither of them really wanted to see the useful male beaten to death.Wicked Bladen'Kerst, though, licked her lips anxiously and grippedthe five-headed tentacle whip tied on her hip, hoping that hermother would allow her the pleasure.

 "I fear it is not the time," Jarlaxle said openly, bluntly."Lloth instructs me differently," Baenre replied, and she seemed quite cool and calm, given the defiance of a mere male.

 "We cannot be certain that our magic will continue to work aswe expect," Jarlaxle reasoned.

 Baenre nodded, and the others then realized, to their absolutesurprise, that their mother was glad the mercenary was taking anegative role. Jarlaxle's questions were pertinent, and he was, in

 fact, helping Baenre sort through the details of her proposed newalliance and the march to Mithril Hall.

 Triel Baenre eyed her mother suspiciously as all of this sank in.If Matron Baenre had received her instructions directly from the Spider Queen, as she had openly stated, then why would she want, oreven tolerate, defiance or questioning at all? Why would MatronBaenre need to have these most basic questions concerning the wisdom of the march answered?

 "The magic is secure," Baenre replied.

 Jarlaxle conceded the point. Everything he had heard, bothwithin and beyond the drow city, seemed to back that claim. "Youwill have no trouble forming an alliance after the spectacle of HouseOblodra's fall. Matron Mez'Barris Armgo has been supportive allalong, and no matron mother would dare even hint that she fears to follow your lead. "

 "The Clawrift is large enough to hold the rubble of manyhouses," Baenre said dryly.

 Jarlaxle snickered. "Indeed," he said. "And indeed this is thetime for alliance, for whatever purpose that alliance must beformed. "

 "It is time to march to Mithril Hall," Baenre interrupted, hertone one of finality, "time to rise up from despair and bring higherglories to the Spider Queen. "

 "We have suffered many losses," Jarlaxle dared to press."House Oblodra and their kobold slaves were to lead the attack,dying in the dwarven traps set for drow. "

 "The kobolds will be brought up from their holes in theClawrift," Baenre assured him.

 Jarlaxle didn't disagree, but he knew the tunnels below the rimof the chasm better than anyone, now that all of House Oblodra wasdead. Baenre would get some kobolds, several hundred perhaps,but House Oblodra could have provided many thousand.

 "The city's hierarchy is in question," the mercenary went on. "The third house is no more, and the fourth is without its matronmother. Your own family still has not recovered from the renegade'sescape and the loss of Dantrag and Vendes. "

 Baenre suddenly sat forward in her throne. Jarlaxle didn't flinch, but many of the Baenre children did, fearing that theirmother understood the truth of the mercenary's last statement, and

 that Baenre simply would not tolerate any bickering between hersurviving children as they sorted out the responsibilities and opportunities left open by the loss of their brother and sister.

 Baenre stopped as quickly as she had started, standing beforethe throne. She let her dangerous gaze linger over each of her gathered children, then dropped it fully over the impertinent mercenary."Come with me," she commanded.

 Jarlaxle stepped aside to let her pass, and obediently and wiselyfell into step right behind her. Triel moved to follow, but Baenrespun about, stopping her daughter in her tracks. "Just him," shegrowled.

 A black column centered the throne room, and a crack appeared along its seemingly perfect and unblemished side as Baenre and the mercenary approached. The crack widened as the cunning door slidopen, allowing the two to enter the cylindrical chamber within.

 Jarlaxle expected Baenre to yell at him, or to talk to him, even threaten him, once the door closed again, separating them from herfamily. But the matron mother said nothing, just calmly walked overto a hole in the floor. She stepped into the hole, but did not fall,rather floated down to the next lower level, the great Baenremound's third level, on currents of magical energy Jarlaxle followed as soon as the way was clear, but still, when he got to the third level,he had to hurry to keep up with the hustling matron mother, glidingthrough the floor once more, and then again, and again, until shecame to the dungeons beneath the great mound.

 Still she offered not a word of explanation, and Jarlaxle began towonder if he was to be imprisoned down here. Many drow, evendrow nobles, had found that grim fate; it was rumored that severalhad been kept as Baenre prisoners for more than a century, endlessly tortured, then healed by the priestesses, that they might be tortured again.

 A wave of Baenre's hand sent the two guards standing besideone cell door scrambling for cover.

 Jarlaxle was as relieved as curious when he walked into the cell behind Baenre to find a curious, barrel-chested dwarf chained to thefar wall. The mercenary looked back to Baenre, and only then did herealize she was not wearing one of her customary necklaces, the onefashioned of a dwarf's tooth.

 "A recent catch?" Jarlaxle asked, though he suspected differently.

 "Two thousand years," Baenre replied. "I give to you GandalugBattlehammer, patron of Clan Battlehammer, founder of MithrilHall. "

 Jarlaxle rocked back on his heels. He had heard the rumors, ofcourse, that Baenre's tooth pendant contained the soul of an ancientdwarf king, but never had he suspected such a connection. He realized then, suddenly, that this entire foray to Mithril Hall was notabout Drizzt Do'Urden, that the renegade was merely a connection, an excuse, for something Baenre had desired for a very long time.

 Jarlaxle looked at Baenre suddenly, curiously. "Two thousand years?" he echoed aloud, while he silently wondered just how oldthis withered drow really was.

 "I have kept his soul through the centuries," Baenre went on,eyeing the old dwarf directly. "During the time Lloth could not hearour call, the item was destroyed and Gandalug came forth, aliveagain." She walked over, put her snarling visage right up to the battered, naked dwarf's long, pointed nose, and put one hand on hisround, solid shoulder. "Alive, but no more free than he was before. "

 Gandalug cleared his throat as if he meant to spit on Baenre. Hestopped, though, when he realized that a spider had crawled out ofthe ring on her hand, onto his shoulder, and was now making itsway along his neck.

 Gandalug understood that Baenre would not kill him, that she needed him for her proposed conquest. He did not fear death, butwould have preferred it to this torment and weighed against therealization that he might unwittingly aid in the fall of his own people. Baenre's gruesome mind flayer had already scoured Gandalug'sthoughts more than once, taking information that nobeatings could ever have extracted from the stubborn old dwarf.

 Rationally, Gandalug had nothing to fear, but that did little tocomfort him now. Gandalug hated spiders above all else, hated andfeared them. As soon as he felt the hairy, crawly thing on his neck,he froze, eyes unblinking, sweat beading on his forehead.

 Baenre walked away, leaving her pet spider on the dwarf'sneck. She turned to Jarlaxle again, a supreme look on her face, as though Gandalug's presence should make all the difference in theworld to the doubting mercenary.

 It didn't. Jarlaxle never once doubted that Menzoberranzancould defeat Mithril Hall, never once doubted that the conquest

  

 would be successful. But what of the aftermath of that conquest?The drow city was in turmoil; there would soon be a fierce struggle,perhaps even an open war, to fill the vacancy left by both HouseOblodra's demise and the death of Ghenni'tiroth Tlabbar. Living for centuries on the edge of disaster with his secretive band, the mercenary understood the perils of overextending his grab for power,understood that if one stretched his forces too far, they could simply collapse.

 But Jarlaxle knew, too, that he would not convince MatronBaenre. So be it, he decided. Let Baenre march to Mithril Hall withno further questions from him. He would even encourage her. Ifthings went as she planned, then all would be the better for it.

 If not...

 Jarlaxle didn't bother to entertain those possibilities. He knewwhere Gromph stood, knew the wizard's frustration and the frustrations of Bregan D'aerthe, a band almost exclusively male. Let Baenrego to Mithril Hall, and if she failed, then Jarlaxle would takeBaenre's own advice and "rise up from despair. "

 Indeed.

 Chapter 16

 OPEN HEARTS

 Drizzt found her on the same east-facing plateau where she had practiced all those weeks, the very spot whereshe had at last gained control of her strong-willedsword. Long shadows rolled out from the mountains, the sun low in the sky behind them. The first stars shone clearly,twinkling above Silverymoon, and Sundabar to the east beyondthat.

 Catti-brie sat unmoving, legs bent and knees pulled in tightly toher chest. If she heard the approach of the almost silent drow, shegave no indication, just rocked gently back and forth, staring intothe deepening gloom.

 "The night is beautiful," Drizzt said, and when Catti-brie didnot jump at the sound of his voice, he realized she had recognizedhis approach. "But the wind is chill. "

 "The winter's coming in full," Catti-brie replied softly, not taking her gaze from the darkened eastern sky.

 Drizzt sought a reply, wanted to keep talking. He felt awkwardhere, strangely so, for never in the years he had known Catti-briehad there been such tension between them. The drow walked over

 and crouched beside Catti-brie, but did not look at her, as she didnot look at him.

 "I'll call Guenhwyvar this night," Drizzt remarked.

 Catti-brie nodded.

 Her continued silence caught the drow off guard. His calling ofthe panther, for the first time since the figurine was repaired, was nosmall thing. Would the figurine's magic work properly, enablingGuenhwyvar to return to his side? Fret had assured him it would,but Drizzt could not be certain, could not rest easily, until the taskwas completed and the panther, the healed panther, was back besidehim.

 It should have been important to Catti-brie as well. She should have cared as much as Drizzt cared, for she and Guenhwyvar wereas close as any. Yet she didn't reply, and her silence made Drizzt,anger budding within him, turn to regard her more closely.

 He saw tears rimming her blue eyes, tears that washed awayDrizzt's anger, that told him that what had happened between himself and Catti-brie had apparently not been so deeply buried. Thelast time they had met, on this very spot, they had hidden the questions they both wanted to ask behind the energy of a sparringmatch. Catti-brie's concentration had to be complete on that occasion, and in the days before it, as she fought to master her sword,but now that task was completed. Now, like Drizzt, she had time tothink, and in that time, Catti-brie had remembered.

 "Ye're knowin' it was the sword?" she asked, almost pleaded.

 Drizzt smiled, trying to comfort her. Of course it had been thesentient sword that had inspired her to throw herself at him. Fullythe sword, only the sword. But a large part of Drizzt—and possiblyof Catti-brie, he thought in looking at her—wished differently. Therehad been an undeniable tension between them for some time, acomplicated situation, and even more so now, after the possession incident with Khazid'hea.

 "Ye did right in pushing me away," Catti-brie said, and shesnorted and cleared her throat, hiding a sniffle.

 Drizzt paused for a long moment, realizing the potential weightof his reply. "I pushed you away only because I saw the pommel,"he said, and that drew Catti-brie's attention from the eastern sky,made her look at the drow directly, her deep blue eyes locking withhis violet orbs.

 "It was the sword," Drizzt said quietly, "only the sword. "

 Catti-brie didn't blink, barely drew breath. She was thinkinghow noble this drow had been. So many other men would not have asked questions, would have taken advantage of the situation. Andwould that have been such a bad thing? the young woman had toask herself now. Her feelings for Drizzt were deep and real, a bondof friendship and love. Would it have been such a bad thing if he had made love to her in that room?

 Yes, she decided, for both of them, because, while it was herbody that had been offered, it was Khazid'hea that was in control.Things were awkward enough between them now, but if Drizzt hadrelented to the feelings that Catti-brie knew he held for her, if he hadnot been so noble in that strange situation and had given in to theoffered temptation, likely neither of them would have been able tolook the other in the eye afterward.

 Like they were doing now, on a quiet plateau high in the mountains, with a chill and crisp breeze and the stars glowing ever more brightly above them.

 "Ye're a good man, Drizzt Do'Urden," the grateful woman saidwith a heartfelt smile.

 "Hardly a man," Drizzt replied, chuckling, and glad for therelief of tension.

 Only a temporary relief, though. The chuckle and the smile diedaway almost immediately, leaving them in the same place, the sameawkward moment, caught somewhere between romance and fear.

 Catti-brie looked back to the sky; Drizzt did likewise.

 "Ye know I loved him," the young woman said.

 "You still do," Drizzt answered, and his smile was genuinewhen Catti-brie turned back again to regard him.

 She turned away almost at once, looked back to the bright starsand thought of Wulfgar.

 "You would have married him," Drizzt went on.

 Catti-brie wasn't so sure of that. For all the true love she held forWulfgar, the barbarian carried around the weight of his heritage anda society that valued women not as partners, but as servants. Wulfgarhad climbed above many of the narrow-thinking ways of his tribalpeople, but as his wedding to Catti-brie approached, he had becomemore protective of her, to the point of being insulting. That, aboveanything else, proud and capable Catti-brie could not tolerate.

  

 Her doubts were clear on her face, and Drizzt, who knew herbetter than anyone, read them easily.

 "You would have married him," he said again, his firm tone forcing Catti-brie to look back to him.

 "Wulfgar was no fool," Drizzt went on.

 "Don't ye be blamin' it all on Entreri and the halfling's gem,"Catti-brie warned. After the threat of the drow hunting party hadbeen turned away, after Wulfgar's demise, Drizzt had explained toher, and to Bruenor, who perhaps more than anyone else needed tohear the justification, that Entreri, posing as Regis, had used thehypnotic powers of the ruby pendant on Wulfgar. Yet that theorycould not fully explain the barbarian's outrageous behavior, becauseWulfgar had started down that path long before Entreri had even arrived at Mithril Hall.

 "Surely the gem pushed Wulfgar further," Drizzt countered.

 "Pushed him where he wanted to go. "

 "No." The simple reply, spoken with absolute surety, almost caught Catti-brie off guard. She cocked her head to the side, herthick auburn hair cascading over one shoulder, waiting for the drowto elaborate.

 "He was scared," Drizzt went on. "Nothing in the worldfrightened mighty Wulfgar more than the thought of losing hisCatti-brie. "

 "HisCatti-brie?" she echoed.

 Drizzt laughed at her oversensitivity. "His Catti-brie, as he wasyour Wulfgar," he said, and Catti-brie's smirk fell away as fully asher trap of words.

 "He loved you," Drizzt went on, "with all his heart." Hepaused, but Catti-brie had nothing to say, just sat very still, veryquiet, hearing his every word. "He loved you, and that love madehim feel vulnerable, and frightened him. Nothing anyone could do to Wulfgar, not torture, not battle, not even death, frightened him, but the slightest scratch on Catti-brie would burn like a hot daggerin his heart.

 "So he acted the part of the fool for a short while before youwere to be wed," Drizzt said. "The very next time you saw battle,your own strength and independence would have held a mirror upto Wulfgar, would have shown him his error. Unlike so many of his proud people, unlike Berkthgar, Wulfgar admitted his mistakes and

  

 never made them again. "

 As she listened to the words of her wise friend, Catti-brieremembered exactly that incident, the battle in which Wulfgar hadbeen killed. Those very fears for Catti-brie had played a large part inthe barbarian's death, but before he was taken from her, he hadlooked into her eyes and had indeed realized what his foolishnesshad cost him, had cost them both.

 Catti-brie had to believe that now, recalling the scene in light ofthe drow's words. She had to believe that her love for Wulfgar hadbeen real, very real, and not misplaced, that he was all she hadthought him to be.

 Now she could. For the first time since Wulfgar's death, Catti-brie could remember him without the pangs of guilt, without thefears that, had he lived, she would not have married him. BecauseDrizzt was right; Wulfgar would have admitted the error despite his pride, and he would have grown, as he always had before. That wasthe finest quality of the man, an almost childlike quality, thatviewed the world and his own life as getting better, as movingtoward a better way in a better place.

 What followed was the most sincere smile on Catti-brie's face inmany, many months. She felt suddenly free, suddenly completewith her past, reconciled and able to move forward with her life.

 She looked at the drow, wide-eyed, with a curiosity that seemed to surprise Drizzt. She could go on, but exactly what did that mean?

 Slowly, Catti-brie began shaking her head, and Drizzt came tounderstand that the movement had something to do with him. Helifted a slender hand and brushed some stray hair back from hercheek, his ebony skin contrasting starkly with her light skin, even inthe quiet light of night.

 "I do love you," the drow admitted. The blunt statement did notcatch Catti-brie by surprise, not at all. "As you love me," Drizztwent on, easily, confident that his words were on the mark. "And I,too, must look ahead now, must find my place among my friends,beside you, without Wulfgar. "

 "Perhaps in the future," Catti-brie said, her voice barely a whisper.

 "Perhaps," Drizzt agreed. "But for now... "

 "Friends," Catti-brie finished.

 Drizzt moved his hand back from her cheek, held it in the airbefore her face, and she reached up and clasped it firmly.

 Friends.

 The moment lingered, the two staring, not talking, and it wouldhave gone on much, much longer, except that there came a commotion from the trail behind them, and the sound of voices they bothrecognized.

 "Stupid elf couldn't do this inside!" blustered Bruenor.

 "The stars are more fitting for Guenhwyvar," huffed Regisbreathlessly. Together they crashed through a bush not far behindthe plateau and stumbled and skidded down to join their twofriends.

 "Stupid elf?" Catti-brie asked her father.

 "Bah!" Bruenor snorted. "I'm not for saying... "

 "Well, actually," Regis began to correct, but changed his mindwhen Bruenor turned his scarred visage the halfling's way andgrowled at him.

 "So ye're right and I said stupid elf!" Bruenor admitted, speaking mostly to Drizzt, as close to an apology as he ever gave. "ButI've got me work to do." He looked back up the trail, in the directionof Mithril Hall's eastern door. "Inside!" he finished.

 Drizzt took out the onyx figurine and placed it on the ground, purposely right before the dwarf's heavy boots. "When Guenhwyvar is returned to us, I will explain how inconvenienced you were tocome and witness her return," Drizzt said with a smirk.

 "Stupid elf," Bruenor muttered under his breath, and he fullyexpected that Drizzt would have the cat sleep on him again, orsomething worse.

 Catti-brie and Regis laughed, but their mirth was strained andnervous, as Drizzt called quietly for the panther. The pain theywould have to bear if the magic of the figurine had not healed, if Guenhwyvar did not return to them, would be no less to the companions than the pain of losing Wulfgar.

 They all knew it, even surly, blustery Bruenor, who to his gravewould deny his affection for the magical panther. Silence grew around the figurine as the gray smoke came forth, swirled, andsolidified.

 Guenhwyvar seemed almost confused as she regarded the fourcompanions standing about her, none of them daring to breathe.

 Drizzt's grin was the first and the widest, as he saw that histrusted companion was whole again and healed, the black fur

 glistening in the starlight, the sleek muscles taut and strong.

 He had brought Bruenor and Regis out to witness this moment.It was fitting that all four of them stood by when Guenhwyvarreturned.

 More fitting would it have been had the sixth companion, Wulfgar, son of Beornegar, joined them on that plateau, in the quiet night,under the stars, in the last hours of Mithril Hall's peace.

 Part 4

 THE DROW MARCH

 I noticed something truly amazing, and truly heartwarming,as we, all the defenders of Mithril Hall and the immediateregion, neared the end of preparations, neared the time when the drow would come.

 I am drow. My skin proves that I am different. The ebony hue showsmy heritage clearly and undeniably. And yet, not a glare was aimed myway, not a look of consternation from the Harpells and the Longriders, notan angry word from volatile Berkthgar and his warrior people. And nodwarf, not even General Dagna, who did not like anyone who was not adwarf, pointed an accusing finger at me.

 We did not know why the drow had come, be it for me or for thepromise of treasure from the rich dwarven complex. Whatever the cause, tothe defenders, I was without blame. How wonderful that felt to me, whohad worn the burden of self-imposed guilt for many months, guilt for the previous raid, guilt for Wulfgar, guilt that Catti-brie had been forced byfriendship to chase me all the way to Menzoberranzan.

 Ihad worn this heavy collar, and yet those around me who had asmuch to lose as I placed no burden on me.

 You cannot understand how special that realization was to one of my past. It was a gesture of sincere friendship, and what made it all the moreimportant is that it was an unintentional gesture, offered without thoughtor purpose. Too often in the past, my "friends" would make such gesturesas if to prove something, more to themselves than to me. They could feelbetter about themselves because they could look beyond the obvious differences, such as the color of my skin.

 Guenhwyvar never did that. Bruenor never did that. Neither did Catti-brie or Regis. Wulfgar at first despised me, openly and withoutexcuse, simply because I was drow. They were honest, and thus, they werealways my friends. But in the days of preparation for war, 1 saw that sphere

 of friendship expand many times over. I came to know that the dwarves ofMithril Hall, the men and women of Settlestone, and many, many more,truly accepted me.

 That is the honest nature of friendship. That is when it becomes sincere, and not self-serving. So in those days, Drizzt Do'Urden came tounderstand, once and for all, that he was not of Menzoberranzan.

 I threw off the collar of guilt. I smiled.

 —Drizzt Do'Urden

 Chapter 17

 BLINGDENSTONE

 They were shadows among the shadows, flickeringmovements that disappeared before the eye couldtake them in. And there was no sound. Though threehundred dark elves moved in formation, right flank,left flank, center, there was no sound.

 They had come to the west of Menzoberranzan, seeking theeasier and wider tunnels that would swing them back toward theeast and all the way to the surface, to Mithril Hall. Blingdenstone,the city of svirfnebli, whom the drow hated above all others, was not so far away, another benefit of this roundabout course.

 Uthegental Armgo paused in one small, sheltered cubby. Thetunnels were wide here, uncomfortably so. Svirfnebli were tacticians and builders; in a fight they would depend on formations,perhaps even on war machines, to compete with the morestealthy and individual-minded drow. The widening of these particular tunnels was no accident, Uthegental knew, and noresult of nature. This battlefield had long ago been prepared byhis enemies.

 So where were they? Uthegental had come into their domain

 with three hundred drow, his group leading an army of eightthousand dark elves and thousands of humanoid slaves. And yet,though Blingdenstone itself could not be more than a twentyminute march from his position—and his scouts were even closer than that—there had been no sign of svirfnebli.

 The wild patron of Barrison del'Armgo was not happy. Uthegentalliked things predictable, at least as far as enemies were concerned,and had hoped that he and his warriors would have seen some actionagainst the gnomes by now. It was no accident that his group, that he,was at the forefront of the drow army. That had been a concession by Baenre to Mez'Barris, an affirmation of the importance of the secondhouse. But with that concession came responsibility, which Matron Mez'Barris had promptly dropped on Uthegental's sturdy shoulders.House Barrison del'Armgo needed to come out of this war with highglory, particularly in light of Matron Baenre's incredible display in thedestruction of House Oblodra. When this business with Mithril Hall was settled, the rearrangement of the pecking order in Menzoberranzan would likely begin. Interhouse wars seemed unavoidable, withthe biggest holes to be filled those ranks directly behind Barrison del'Armgo.

 Thus had Matron Mez'Barris promised full fealty to Baenre, inexchange for being personally excused from the expedition. Sheremained in Menzoberranzan, solidifying her house's positionand working closely with Triel Baenre in forming a web of liesand allies to insulate House Baenre from further accusations.Baenre had agreed with Mez'Barris's offer, knowing that she, too, would be vulnerable if all did not go well in Mithril Hall.

 With the matron mother of his house back in Menzoberranzan, the glory of House Barrison del'Armgo was Uthegental's tofind. The fierce warrior was glad for the task, but he was edgy as well, filled with nervous energy, wanting a battle, any battle, thathe might whet his appetite for what was to come, and might wetthe end of his wicked trident with the blood of an enemy.

 But where were the ugly little svirfnebli? he wondered. Themarching plan called for no attack on Blingdenstone proper—not on the initial journey, at least. If there was to be an assault onthe gnome city, it would come on the return from Mithril Hall,after the main objective had been realized. Uthegental had beengiven permission to test svirfneblin defenses, though, and to

 skirmish with any gnomes he and his warriors found out in theopen tunnels.

 Uthegental craved that, and had already determined that if hefound and tested the gnome defenses and discovered sufficient holes in them, he would take the extra step, hoping to return toBaenre's side with the head of the svirfneblin king on the end of his trident.

 All glory for Barrison del'Armgo.

 One of the scouts slipped back past the guards, moved rightup to the fierce warrior. Her fingers flashed in the silent drowcode, explaining to her leader that she had gone closer, muchcloser, had even seen the stairway that led up to the level of Blingdenstone'smassive front gates. But no sign had she seen of thesvirfnebli.

 It had to be an ambush; every instinct within the seasonedweapon master told Uthegental that the svirfnebli were lying inwait, in full force. Almost any other dark elf, a race known forcaution when dealing with others (mostly because the drow knewthey could always win such encounters if they struck at theappropriate time), would have relented. In truth, Uthegental'smission, a scouting expedition, was now complete, and he couldreturn to Matron Baenre with a full report that she would bepleased to hear.

 But fierce Uthegental was not like other drow. He was lessthan relieved, was, in fact boiling with rage.

 Take me there,his fingers flashed, to the surprise of the femalescout.

 You are too valuable,the female's hands replied.

 "All of us!" Uthegental roared aloud, his volume surprisingevery one of the many dark elves about him. But Uthegentalwasn't startled, and did not relent. "Send the word along everycolumn," he went on, "to follow my lead to the very gates ofBlingdenstone!"

 More than a few drow soldiers turned nervous looks to eachother. They numbered three hundred, a formidable force, but Blingdenstone held many times that number, and svirfnebli, fullof tricks with the stone and often allied with powerful monsters from the Plane of Earth, were not easy foes. Still, not one of thedark elves would argue with Uthegental Armgo, especially since

 he alone knew what Matron Baenre expected of this point group.

 And so they arrived in full, at the stairway and up it theyclimbed, to the very gates of Blingdenstone—gates that a drow engineer found devilishly trapped, with the entire ceiling abovethem rigged to fall if they were opened. Uthegental called to apriestess that had been assigned to his group.

 You can get one of us past the barrier?his fingers asked her, towhich she nodded.

 Uthegental's stream of surprises continued when he indicated he would personally enter the svirfneblin city. It was an unheard-of request. No drow leader ever went in first; that's what commoners were for.

 But again, who would argue with Uthegental? In truth, thepriestess really didn't care if this arrogant male got torn apart. Shebegan her casting at once, a spell that would make Uthegental asinsubstantial as a wraith, would make his form melt away into something that could slip through the slightest cracks. When itwas done, the brave Uthegental left without hesitation, withoutbothering to leave instructions in the event that he did not return.

 Proud and supremely confident, Uthegental simply did notthink that way.

 A few minutes later, after passing through the empty guardchambers, crisscrossed with cunningly built trenches and fortifications, Uthegental became only the second drow, after DrizztDo'Urden, to glance at the rounded, natural houses of the svirfnebli and the winding, unremarkable ways that composed their city. How different Blingdenstone was from Menzoberranzan, built in accord with what the gnomes had found in the naturalcaverns, rather than sculpted and reformed into an image that adark elf would consider more pleasing.

 Uthegental, who demanded control of everything about him,found the place repulsive. He also found it, this most ancient and hallowed of svirfneblin cities, deserted.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Belwar Dissengulp stared out from the lip of the deep chamber, far to the west of Blingdenstone, and wondered if he haddone right in convincing King Schnicktick to abandon the

 gnomish city. The most honored burrow warden had reasonedthat, with magic returned, the drow would surely march forMithril Hall, and that course, Belwar knew, would take them dangerously close to Blingdenstone.

 Though he had little difficulty in convincing his fellows thatthe dark elves would march, the thought of leaving Blingden stone, of simply packing up their belongings and deserting their ancient home, had not settled well. For more than two thousandyears the gnomes had lived in the ominous shadow of Menzoberranzan, and more than once had they believed the drow wouldcome in full war against them.

 This time was different, Belwar reasoned, and he had toldthem so, his speech full of passion and carrying the weight of hisrelationship with the renegade drow from that terrible city. Still, Belwar was far from convincing Schnicktick and the others until Councilor Firble piped in on the burrow warden's side.

 It was indeed different this time, Firble had told them with allsincerity. This time, the whole of Menzoberranzan would bandtogether, and any attack would not be the ambitious probing of a single house. This time the gnomes, and anyone else unfortunateenough to fall in the path of the drow march, could not depend oninterhouse rivalries to save them. Firble had learned of HouseOblodra's fall from Jarlaxle; an earth elemental sent secretlyunder Menzoberranzan and into the Clawrift by svirfneblinpriests confirmed it and the utter destruction of the third house.Thus, when, at their last meeting, Jarlaxle hinted "it would not bewise to harbor Drizzt Do'Urden," Firble, with his understandingof drow ways, reasoned that the dark elves would indeed marchfor Mithril Hall, in a force unified by the fear of the one who hadso utterly crushed the third house.

 And so, on that ominous note, the svirfnebli had left Blingdenstone, and Belwar had played a critical role in the departure. That responsibility weighed heavily on the burrow warden now,made him second-guess the reasoning that had seemed so sound when he had thought danger imminent. Here to the west the tunnels were quiet, and not eerily so, as though enemy dark elves were slipping from shadow to shadow. The tunnels were quietwith peace; the war Belwar had anticipated seemed a thousandmiles or a thousand years away.

 The other gnomes felt it, too, and Belwar had overheard morethan one complaining that the decision to leave Blingdenstonehad been, at best, foolish.

 Only when the last of the svirfnebli had left the city, when thelong caravan had begun its march to the west, had Belwar realized the gravity of the departure, realized the emotional burden.In leaving, the gnomes were admitting to themselves that they were no match for the drow, that they could not protect themselves or their homes from the dark elves. More than a few svirfnebli, Belwar perhaps most among them, were sick about thatfact. Their illusions of security, of the strength of their shamans, of their very god figure, had been shaken, without a single drop ofspilled svirfneblin blood.

 Belwar felt like a coward.

 The most honored burrow warden took some comfort in thefact that eyes were still in place in Blingdenstone. A friendly elemental, blended with the stone, had been ordered to wait andwatch, and to report back to the svirfneblin shamans who hadsummoned it. If the dark elves did come in, as Belwar expected,the gnomes would know of it.

 But what if they didn't come? Belwar wondered. If he and Firble were wrong and the march did not come, then what losshad the svirfnebli suffered for the sake of caution?

 Could any of them ever feel secure in Blingdenstone again?

 *   *   *   *   *

 Matron Baenre was not pleased at Uthegental's report that thegnomish city was deserted. As sour as her expression was,though, it could not match the open wrath showing on the face ofBerg'inyon, at her side. His eyes narrowed dangerously as he considered the powerful patron of the second house, and Uthegental,seeing a challenge, more than matched that ominous stare.

 Baenre understood the source of Berg'inyon's anger, and she,too, was not pleased by the fact that Uthegental had taken it upon himself to enter Blingdenstone. That act reflected clearly the desperation of Mez'Barris. Obviously Mez'Barris felt vulnerable inthe shadows of Matron Baenre's display against Oblodra, andthus she had placed a great weight upon Uthegental's broad

 shoulders.

 Uthegental marched for the glory of Barrison del'Armgo,Matron Baenre knew, marched fanatically, along with his force ofmore than three hundred drow warriors.

 To Berg'inyon, that was not a good thing, for he, and notMatron Baenre, was in direct competition with the powerfulweapon master.

 Matron Baenre considered all the news in light of her son'sexpression, and, in the end, she thought Uthegental's daring agood thing. The competition would push Berg'inyon to excellence. And if he failed, if Uthegental was the one who killedDrizzt Do'Urden (for that was obviously the prize both sought),even if Berg'inyon was killed by Uthegental, then so be it. Thismarch was greater than House Baenre, greater than anyone's personal goals—except, of course, for Matron Baenre's own.

 When Mithril Hall was conquered, whatever the cost to herson, she would be in the highest glory of the Spider Queen, andher house would be above the schemes of the others, if all theothers combined their forces against her!

 "You are dismissed," Baenre said to Uthegental. "Back to the forefront. "

 The spike-haired weapon master smiled wickedly and bowed,never taking his eyes from Berg'inyon. Then he spun on his heelto leave, but spun again immediately as Baenre addressed himonce more.

 "And if you chance to come upon the tracks of the fleeingsvirfnebli," Baenre said, and she paused, looking from Uthegentalto Berg'inyon, "do send an emissary to inform me of the chase. "

 Berg'inyon's shoulders slumped even as Uthegental's grin,showing those filed, pointy teeth, widened so much that it nearlytook in his ears. He bowed again and ran off.

 "The svirfnebli are mighty foes," Baenre said offhandedly,aiming the remark at Berg'inyon. "They will kill him and all of hisparty." She didn't really believe the claim, had made it only forBerg'inyon's sake. In looking at her wise son, though, she realizedhe didn't believe it either.

 "And if not," Baenre said, looking the other way, to Quenthel,who stood by impassively, appearing quite bored, and to Methil,who always seemed quite bored, "the gnomes are not so great a

 prize." The matron mother's gaze snapped back over Berg'inyon."We know the prize of this march," she said, her voice a feralsnarl. She didn't bother to mention that her ultimate goal andBerg'inyon's goal were not the same.

 The effect on the young weapon master was instantaneous.He snapped back to rigid attention, and rode off on his lizard assoon as his mother waved her hand to dismiss him.

 Baenre turned to Quenthel.See that spies are put among Uthegental'ssoldiers,her fingers subtly flashed. Baenre paused amoment to consider the fierce weapon master, and to reflect onwhat he would do if such spies were discovered.Males, Baenre added to her daughter, and Quenthel agreed.

 Males were expendable.

 Sitting alone as her driftdisk floated amidst the army, Matron Baenre turned her thoughts to more important issues. The rivalryof Berg'inyon and Uthegental was of little consequence, as was Uthegental's apparent disregard for proper command. More disturbing was the svirfneblin absence. Might the wicked gnomes beplanning an assault on Menzoberranzan even as Baenre and herforce marched away?

 It was a silly thought, one Matron Baenre quickly dismissed.More than half the dark elves remained in Menzoberranzan,under the watchful eyes of Mez'Barris Armgo, Triel, and Gromph.If the gnomes attacked, they would be utterly destroyed, more to the Spider Queen's glory.

 But even as she considered those city defenses, the thought ofa conspiracy against her nagged at the edges of Baenre's consciousness.

 Triel is loyal and in control,came a telepathic assurance fromMethil, who remained not so far away and was reading Baenre'severy thought.

 Baenre took some comfort in that. Before she had left Menzoberranzan, she had bade Methil to scour her daughter's reactionsto her plans, and the illithid had come back with a completelypositive report. Triel was not pleased by the decision to go toMithril Hall. She feared her mother might be overstepping herbounds, but she was convinced, as most likely were all the others,that, in the face of the destruction of House Oblodra, Lloth hadsanctioned this war. Thus, Triel would not head a coup for control

 of House Baenre in her mother's absence, would not, in any way, go against her mother at this time.

 Baenre relaxed. All was going according to design; it was notimportant that the cowardly gnomes had fled.

 All was going even better than design, Baenre decided, for therivalry between Uthegental and Berg'inyon would provide muchentertainment. The possibilities were intriguing. Perhaps if Uthegental killed Drizzt, and killed Berg'inyon in the process, MatronBaenre would force the spike-haired savage into House Baenre toserve as her own weapon master. Mez'Barris would not dareprotest, not after Mithril Hall was conquered.

 Chapter 18

 UNEASY GATHERINGS

 "Even now is Regweld, who shall lead us, meeting withBruenor, who is king," said a rider, a knight wearing themost unusual of armor. There wasn't a smooth spot onthe mail; it was ridged and buckled, with grillworkpointing out at various angles, its purpose to turn aside any blows,to deflect rather than absorb.

 The man's fifty comrades—a strange-looking group indeed—were similarly outfitted, which could be readily explained by lookingat their unusual pennant. It depicted a stick-man, his hair straight upon end and arms held high, standing atop a house and throwing lightning bolts to the sky (or perhaps he was catching lightninghurled down at him from the clouds—one could not be sure). Thiswas the banner of Longsaddle and these were the Longriders, thesoldiers of Longsaddle, a capable, if eccentric, group. They had comeinto Settlestone this cold and gloomy day, chasing the first flakes ofthe first snow.

 "Regweld shall leadyou," answered another rider, tall and sureon his saddle, carrying the scars of countless battles. He was moreconventionally armored, as were his forty companions, riding

 under the horse-and-spear banner of Nesme, the proud frontiertown on the edge of the dreaded Trollmoors. "But notus. We are theRiders of Nesme, who follow no lead but our own!"

 "Just because you got here first doesn't mean you pick therules!" whined the Longrider.

 "Let us not forget our purpose," intervened a third rider, hishorse trotting up, along with two companions, to greet the newestarrivals. When he came closer, the others saw from his angular features, shining golden hair, and similarly colored eyes that he was noman at all, but an elf, though tall for one of his race. "I am Besnell ofSilverymoon, come with a hundred soldiers from Lady Alustriel.We shall each find our place when battle is joined, though if there isto be any leader among us, it shall be me, who speaks on behalf of Alustriel. "

 The man from Nesme and the man from Longsaddle regarded each other helplessly. Their respective towns, particularly Nesme,were surely under the shadow of Silverymoon, and their respective rulers would not challenge Alustriel's authority.

 "But you are not in Silverymoon," came a roaring reply fromBerkthgar, who had been standing in the shadows of a nearbydoorway, listening to the argument, almost hoping it would erupt into something more fun than bandied words. "You are in Settle-stone, where Berkthgar rules, and in Settlestone, you are ruled byBerkthgar!"

 Everyone tensed, particularly the two Silverymoon soldiersflanking Besnell. The elven warrior sat quietly for a moment, eyeingthe huge barbarian as Berkthgar, his gigantic sword strapped acrosshis back, steadily and calmly approached. Besnell was not overly proud, and his rank alone in the Silverymoon detachment provedthat he never let pride cloud good judgment.

 "Well spoken, Berkthgar the Bold," he politely replied. "Andtrue enough." He turned to the other two mounted leaders. "Wehave come from Silverymoon, and you from Nesme, and you fromLongsaddle, to serve in Berkthgar's cause, and in the cause of Bruenor Battlehammer. "

 "We came to Bruenor's call," grumbled the Longrider, "notBerkthgar's. "

 "Would you then take your horse into the dark tunnels beneathMithril Hall?" reasoned Besnell, who understood from his meetings

  

 with Berkthgar and Catti-brie that the dwarves would handle theunderground troubles, while the riders would join with the warriorsof Settlestone to secure the outlying areas.

 "His horse and he might be underground sooner than he expects," Berkthgar piped in, an open threat that shook theLongrider more than a little.

 "Enough of this," Besnell was quick to interject. "We have allcome together as allies, and allies we shall be, joined in a commoncause. "

 "Joined by fear," the Nesme soldier replied. "We in Nesme oncemet Bruenor's..." He paused, looking to the faces of the other leaders, then to his own grim men for support, as he searched for theproper words. "We have met King Bruenor's dark-skinned friend,"he said finally, his tone openly derisive. "What good might comefrom association with evil drow?"

 The words had barely left his mouth before Berkthgar was uponhim, reaching up to grab him by a crease in his armor and pull himlow in the saddle, that he might look right into the barbarian'ssnarling visage. The nearby Nesme soldiers had their weapons out and ready, but so, too, did Berkthgar's people, coming out of everystone house and around every corner.

 Besnell groaned and the Longriders, every one, shook theirheads in dismay.

 "If ever again you speak ill of Drizzt Do'Urden," Berkthgargrowled, caring nothing of the swords and spears poised not so faraway, "you will offer me an interesting choice. Do I cut you in half and leave you dead on the field, or do I bring you in to Drizzt, that he might find the honor of severing your head himself?"

 Besnell walked his horse right up to the barbarian and used itsheavy press to force Berkthgar back from the stunned Nesme soldier.

 "Drizzt Do'Urden would not kill the man for his words,"Besnell said with all confidence, for he had met Drizzt on manyoccasions during the dark elf's frequent visits to Silverymoon.

 Berkthgar knew the elf spoke truly, and so the barbarian leaderrelented, backing off a few steps.

 "Bruenor would kill him," Berkthgar did say, though.

 "Agreed," said Besnell. "And many others would take up armsin the dark elf's defense. But, as I have said, enough of this. Alljoined, we are a hundred and ninety calvary, come to aid in the

 cause." He looked all around as he spoke and seemed taller andmore imposing than his elven frame would normally allow. "A hundred and ninety come to join with Berkthgar and his proud warriors. Rarely have four such groups converged as allies. TheLongriders, the Riders of Nesme, the Knights in Silver, and the warriors of Settlestone, all joined in common cause. If the war doescome—and looking at the allies I have discovered this day, I hope itdoes—our deeds shall be echoed throughout the Realms! And letthe drow army beware!"

 He had played perfectly on the pride of all of them, and so theytook up the cheer together, and the moments of tension werepassed. Besnell smiled and nodded as the shouts continued, but heunderstood that things were not as solid and friendly as they shouldbe. Longsaddle had sent fifty soldiers, plus a handful of wizards, avery great sacrifice from the town that, in truth, had little stake inBruenor's well-being. The Harpells looked more to the west, toWaterdeep, for trade and alliance, than to the east, and yet they hadcome to Bruenor's call, including their leader's own daughter.

 Silverymoon was equally committed, both by friendship toBruenor and Drizzt and because Alustriel was wise enough tounderstand that if the drow army did march to the surface, all theworld would be a sadder place. Alustriel had dispatched a hundredknights to Berkthgar, and another hundred rode independently, skirting the eastern foothills below Mithril Hall, covering the morerugged trails that led around Fourthpeak's northern face, to Keeper's Dale in the west. All told, there were two hundredmounted warriors, fully two-fifths of the famed Knights in Silver, agreat contingent and a great sacrifice, especially with the first windsof winter blowing cold in the air.

 Nesme's sacrifice was less, Besnell understood, and likely theRiders of Nesme's commitment would be too. This was the townwith the most to lose, except of course for Settlestone, and yetNesme had spared barely a tenth of its seasoned garrison. Thestrained relations between Mithril Hall and Nesme were no secret, abrewing feud that had begun before Bruenor had ever found hishomeland, when the dwarf and his fellow companions had passednear Nesme. Bruenor and his friends had saved several riders frommarauding bog blokes, only to have the riders turn on them when the battle had ended. Because of the color of Drizzt's skin and the

 reputation of his heritage, Bruenor's party had been turned away,and though the dwarf's outrage had been later tempered somewhat by the fact that soldiers from Nesme had joined in the retaking ofMithril Hall, relations had remained somewhat strained.

 This time the expected opponents were dark elves and, nodoubt, that fact alone had reminded the wary men of Nesme of their distrust for Bruenor's closest friend. But at least they had come, andforty were better than none, Besnell told himself. The elf had openlyproclaimed Berkthgar the leader of all four groups, and so it wouldbe (though, if and when battle was joined, each contingent wouldlikely fall into its own tactics, hopefully complementing each other), but Besnell saw a role for himself, less obvious, but no less important. He would be the peacemaker; he would keep the factions inline and in harmony.

 If the dark elves did come, his job would be much easier, heknew, for in the face of so deadly an enemy, petty grievances would fast be forgotten.

 *****

 Belwar didn't know whether to feel relief or fear when wordcame from the spying elemental that the drow, a single drow atleast, had indeed gone into Blingdenstone, and that a drow armyhad marched past the deserted city, finding the tunnels back to theeast, the route to Mithril Hall.

 The most honored burrow warden sat again in his now customary perch, staring out at the empty tunnels. He thought of Drizzt, adear friend, and of the place the dark elf now called home. Drizzthad told Belwar of Mithril Hall when he had passed through Blingdenstone on his way to Menzoberranzan several months earlier.How happy Drizzt had been when he spoke of his friends, thisdwarf named Bruenor, and the human woman, Catti-brie, who had crossed through Blingdenstone on Drizzt's heels, and had, according to later reports, aided in Drizzt's wild escape from the drow city.

 That very escape had facilitated this march, Belwar knew, andyet the gnome remained pleased that his friend had gotten free ofMatron Baenre's clutches. Now Drizzt was home, but the dark elves were going to find him.

 Belwar recalled the true sadness in Drizzt's lavender eyes when

 the drow had recounted the loss of one of his surface-found friends.What tears might Drizzt know soon, the gnome wondered, with adrow army marching to destroy his new home?

 "Decisions we have to make," came a voice behind the sturdygnome. Belwar clapped his mithril "hands" together, more to clear his thoughts than anything else, and turned to face Firble.

 One of the good things that had come from all of this confusionwas the budding friendship between Firble and Belwar. As two ofthe older svirfnebli of Blingdenstone, they had known each other, orof each other, a very long time, but only when Belwar's eyes(because of his friendship with Drizzt) had turned to the world outside the gnomish city had Firble truly come into his life. At first thetwo seemed a complete mismatch, but both had found strength inwhat the other offered, and a bond had grown between them—though neither had as yet openly admitted it.

 "Decisions?"

 "The drow have passed," said Firble.

 "Likely to return. "

 Firble nodded. "Obviously," the round-shouldered counciloragreed. "King Schnicktick must decide whether we are to return toBlingdenstone. "

 The notion hit Belwar like the slap of a cold, wet towel. Return to Blingdenstone? Of course they were to return to their homes! themost honored burrow warden's thoughts screamed out at him. Anyother option was too ridiculous to entertain. But as he calmed andconsidered Firble's grim demeanor, Belwar began to see the truth ofit all. The drow would be back, and if they had made a conquestnear or at the surface, a conquest of Mithril Hall, as most believedwas their intention, then there would likely remain an open routebetween Menzoberranzan and that distant place, a route that passedtoo close to Blingdenstone.

 "Words, there are, and from many with influence, that weshould go farther west, to find a new cavern, a new Blingdenstone," Firble said. From his tone it was obvious the little councilor was notthrilled at that prospect.

 "Never," Belwar said unconvincingly.

 "King Schnicktick will ask your opinion in this most importantmatter," Firble said. "Consider it well, Belwar Dissengulp. The livesof us all may hinge on your answer. "

 A long, quiet moment passed, and Firble gave a curt nod andturned to leave.

 "What does Firble say?" Belwar asked before he could scurryoff.

 The councilor turned slowly, determinedly, staring Belwar straight in the eye. "Firble says there is only one Blingdenstone," heanswered with more grit than Belwar had ever heard, or everexpected to hear, from him. "To leave as the drow pass by is onething, a good thing. To stay out is not so good. "

 "Worth fighting for are some things," Belwar added.

 "Worth dying for?" Firble was quick to put in, and the councilordid turn and leave.

 Belwar sat alone with his thoughts for his home and for hisfriend.

 Chapter 19

 IMPROVISING

 Catti-brie knew as soon as she saw the dwarven courier'sface, his features a mixture of anxiety and battle-lust. She knew, and so she ran off ahead of the messenger,down the winding ways of Mithril Hall, through theUndercity, seeming almost deserted now, the furnaces burning low.Many eyes regarded her, studied the urgency in her stride, andunderstood her purpose. She knew, and so they all knew. The dark elves had come.

 The dwarves guarding the heavy door leading out of MithrilHall proper nodded to her as she came through. "Shoot straight, megirl!" one of them yelled at her back, and, though she was terriblyafraid, though it seemed as if her worst nightmare was about tocome true, that brought a smile to her face.

 She found Bruenor, Regis beside him, in a wide cavern, thesame chamber where the dwarves had defeated a goblin tribe not solong ago. Now the place had been prepared as the dwarf king'scommand post, the central brain for the defense of the outer andlower tunnels. Nearly all tunnels leading to this chamber from thewilds of the Underdark had been thoroughly trapped or dropped

 altogether, or were now heavily guarded, leaving the chamber assecure a place as could be found outside Mithril Hall proper.

 "Drizzt?" Catti-brie asked.

 Bruenor looked across the cavern, to a large tunnel exiting into the deeper regions. "Out there," he said, "with the cat. "

 Catti-brie looked around. The preparations had been made;everything had been set into place as well as possible in the timeallowed. Not so far away, Stumpet Rakingclaw and her fellow clerics crouched and knelt on the floor, lining up and sorting dozens ofsmall potion bottles and preparing bandages, blankets, and herbalsalves for the wounded. Catti-brie winced, for she knew that allthose bandages and more would be needed before this was finished.

 To the side of the clerics, three of the Harpells—Harkle, Bidderdoo, and Bella don DelRoy—conferred over a small, round tablecovered with dozens of maps and other parchments.

 Bella looked up and motioned to Bruenor, and the dwarf kingrushed to her side.

 "Are we to sit and wait?" Catti-brie asked Regis.

 "For the time," the halfling answered. "But soon Bruenor and Iwill lead a group out, along with one of the Harpells, to rendezvous with Drizzt and Pwent in Tunult's Cavern. I'm sure Bruenor meansfor you to come with us. "

 "Let him try to stop me," Catti-brie muttered under her breath.She silently considered the rendezvous. Tunult's Cavern was thelargest chamber outside Mithril Hall, and if they were going to meet Drizzt there, instead of some out-of-the-way place—and if the dark elves were indeed in the tunnels near Mithril Hall—then the anticipated battle would come soon. Catti-brie took a deep breath andtook up Taulmaril, her magical bow. She tested its pull, thenchecked her quiver to make sure it was full, even though theenchantment of the quiver ensured that it was always full.

 We are ready,came a thought in her mind, a thought imparted byKhazid'hea, she knew. Catti-brie took comfort in her newest companion. She trusted the sword now, knew that it and she were of likemind. And they were indeed ready; they all were.

 Still, when Bruenor and Bidderdoo walked away from the other Harpells, the dwarf motioning to his personal escorts and Regis andCatti-brie, the young woman's heart skipped a few beats.

 *   *   *  *  *

 The Gutbuster Brigade rambled and jostled, bouncing off wallsand each other. Drow in the tunnels! They had spotted drow in thetunnels, and now they needed a catch or a kill.

 To the few dark elves who were indeed so close to Mithril Hall,forward scouts for the wave that would follow, the thunder ofPwent's minions seemed almost deafening. The drow were a quietrace, as quiet as the Underdark itself, and the bustle of surface-dwelling dwarves made them think that a thousand fierce warriors were giving chase. So the dark elves fell back, stretched their lines thin, with the more-important females taking the lead in the retreatand the males forced to hold the line and delay the enemy.

 First contact was made in a narrow but high tunnel. The Gut-busters came in hard and fast from the east, and three drow, levitating among the stalactites, fired hand-crossbows, puttingpoison-tipped darts into Pwent and the two others flanking him inthe front rank.

 "What!" the battlerager roared, as did his companions, surprised by the sudden sting. The ever wary Pwent, cunning and comprehending, looked around, then he and the other two fell to thefloor.

 With a scream of surprise, the rest of the Gutbusters turnedabout and fled, not even thinking to recover their fallen comrades.

 Kill two. Take one back for questioning,the most important of thethree dark elves signaled as he and his companions began floatingback to the floor.

 They touched down lightly and drew out fine swords.

 Up scrambled the three battleragers, their little legs pumpingunder them in a wild flurry. No poison, not even the famed drowsleeping poison, could get through the wicked concoctions thisgroup had recently imbibed. Gutbuster was a drink, not just abrigade, and if a dwarf could survive the drink itself, he wouldn'thave to worry much about being poisoned (or being cold) forsome time.

 Closest to the dark elves, Pwent lowered his head, with its longhelmet spike, and impaled one elf through the chest, blastingthrough the fine mesh of drow armor easily and brutally.

 The second drow managed to deflect the next battlerager's

 charge, turning the helmet spike aside with both his swords. But amailed fist, the knuckles devilishly spiked with barbed points,caught the drow under the chin and tore a gaping hole in his throat.Fighting for breath, the drow managed to score two nasty hits on hisopponent's back, but those two strikes did little in the face of theflurry launched by the wild-eyed dwarf.

 Only the third drow survived the initial assault. He leaped highin the air, enacting his levitation spell once more, and got just over the remaining dwarf's barreling charge—mostly because the dwarfslipped on the slick blood of Thibbledorf Pwent's quick kill.

 Up went the drow, into the stalactite tangle, disappearing fromsight.

 Pwent straightened, shaking free of the dead drow. "That way!"he roared, pointing farther along the corridor. "Find an open area o'ceiling and take up a watch! We're not to let this one get away!"

 Around the eastern bend came the rest of the Gutbusters, whooping and shouting, their armor clattering, the many creases and pointson each suit grating and squealing like fingernails on slate.

 "Take to lookin'!" Pwent bellowed, indicating the ceiling, andall the dwarves bobbed about eagerly.

 One screeched, taking a hand-crossbow hit squarely in the face, but that shout of pain became a cry of joy, for the dwarf had only tobacktrack the angle to spot the floating drow. Immediately a globeof darkness engulfed that area of the stalactites, but the dwarvesnow knew where to find him.

 "Lariat!" Pwent bellowed, and another dwarf pulled a rope fromhis belt and scrambled over to the battlerager. The end of the ropewas looped and securely tied in a slip knot, and so the dwarf, misunderstanding Pwent's intent, put the lasso twirling over his head andlooked to the darkened area, trying to discern his best shot.

 Pwent grabbed him by the wrist and held fast, sending the rope limply to the floor. "Battlerager lariat," Pwent explained.

 Other dwarves crowded about, not knowing what their leaderhad in mind. Smiles widened on every face as Pwent slipped the loop over his foot, tightened it about his ankle, and informed the others that it would take more than one of them to get this drow-catcher flying.

 Every eager dwarf grabbed the rope and began tugging wildly,doing no more than to knock Pwent from his feet. Gradually,

 sobered by the threats of the vicious battlerager commander, theymanaged to find a rhythm, and soon had Pwent skipping about thefloor.

 Then they had him up in the air, flying wildly, round and round.But too much slack was given the rope, and Pwent scraped hardagainst one of the corridor walls, his helmet spike throwing a line ofbright sparks.

 This group learned fast, though—considering that they weredwarves who spent their days running headlong into steel-reinforced doors—and they soon had the timing of the spin and thelength of the rope perfect.

 Two turns, five turns, and off flew the battlerager, up into theair, to crash among the stalactites. Pwent grabbed onto one momentarily, but it broke away from the ceiling and down the dwarf andstone tumbled.

 Pwent hit hard, then bounced right back to his feet.

 "One less barrier to our enemy!" one dwarf roared, and beforethe dazed Pwent could protest, the others cheered and tugged,bringing the battlerager lariat to bear once more.

 Up flew Pwent, to similar, painful results, then a third time,then a fourth, which proved the charm, for the poor drow, blind tothe scene, finally dared to come out into the open, edging his way to the west.

 He sensed the living lariat coming and managed to scramble behind a long, thin stalactite, but that hardly mattered, for Pwenttook the stone out cleanly, wrapped his arms about it, and about thedrow behind it, and drow, dwarf, and stone fell together, crashinghard to the floor. Before the drow could recover, half the brigadehad fallen over him, battering him into unconsciousness.

 It took them another five minutes to get the semiconsciousPwent to let go of the victim.

 They were up and moving, Pwent included, soon after, havingtied the drow, ankles and wrists to a long pole, supported on theshoulders of two of the group. They hadn't even cleared the corridor, though, when the dwarves farthest to the west, the two Pwenthad sent to watch, took up a cry of "Drow!" and spun about at theready.

 Into the passage came a lone, trotting dark elf, and before Pwentcould yell out "Not that one!" the two dwarves lowered their heads

 and roared in.

 In a split second, the dark elf cut left, back to the right, spun acomplete circuit to the right, then went wide around the end, andthe two Gutbusters stumbled and slammed hard into the wall. Theyrealized their foolishness when the great panther came by an instant later, following her drow companion.

 Drizzt was back by the dwarves' side, helping them to their feet."Run on," he whispered, and they paused at the warning longenough to hear the rumble of a not-so-distant charge.

 Misunderstanding, the Gutbusters smiled widely and preparedto continue their own charge to the west, headlong into theapproaching force, but Drizzt held them firmly.

 "Our enemies are upon us in great numbers," he said. "You willget your fight, more than you ever hoped for, but not here. "

 By the time Drizzt, the two dwarves, and the panther caught up to Pwent, the noise of the coming army was clearly evident.

 "I thought ye said the damned drow moved silent," Pwentremarked, double-stepping beside the swift ranger.

 "Not drow," Drizzt replied. "Kobolds and goblins. "

 Pwent skidded to an abrupt halt. "We're runnin' from stinkin'kobolds?" he asked.

 "Thousands of stinking kobolds," Drizzt replied evenly, "andbigger monsters, likely with thousands of drow behind them. "

 "Oh," answered the battlerager, suddenly out of bluster.

 In the familiar tunnels, Drizzt and the Gutbusters had notrouble keeping ahead of the rushing army. Drizzt took no detoursthis time, but ran straight to the east, past the tunnels the dwarveshad rigged to fall.

 "Run on," the drow ordered the assigned trap-springers, ahandful of dwarves standing ready beside cranks that would releasethe ropes supporting the tunnel structure. Each of them in turnstared blankly at the surprising command.

 "They're coming," one remarked, for that is exactly why these dwarves were out in the tunnels.

 "All you will catch is kobolds," Drizzt, understanding the drow tactics, informed them. "Run on, and let us see if we cannot catch a few drow as well. "

 "But none'll be here to spring the traps!" more than one dwarf,Pwent among them, piped in.

 Drizzt's wicked grin was convincing, so the dwarves, who hadlearned many times to trust the ranger, shrugged and fell in line with the retreating Gutbusters.

 "Where're we runnin' to?" Pwent wanted to know.

 "Another hundred strides," Drizzt informed him. "Tunult'sCavern, where you will get your fight. "

 "Promises, promises," muttered the fierce Pwent.

 Tunult's Cavern, the most open area this side of Mithril Hall,was really a series of seven caverns connected by wide, arching tunnels. Nowhere was the ground even; some chambers sat higher thanothers, and more than one deep fissure ran across the floors.

 Here waited Bruenor and his escorts, along with nearly a thousand of Mithril Hall's finest fighters. The original plan had called forTunult's Cavern to be set up as an outward command post, used as a send-off point to the remaining, though less direct, tunnels afterthe drow advance had been stopped cold by the dropped stone.

 Drizzt had altered that plan, and he rushed to Bruenor's side,conferring with the dwarf king, and with Bidderdoo Harpell, a wizard that the drow was surely relieved to find.

 "Ye gave up the trap-springing positions!" Bruenor bellowed atthe ranger as soon as he understood that the tunnels beyond werestill intact.

 "Not so," Drizzt replied with all confidence. Even as his gazeled Bruenor's toward the eastern tunnel, the first of the koboldranks rushed in, pouring like water behind a breaking dam into thewaiting dwarves. "I merely got the fodder out of the way. "

 Chapter 20

 THE BATTLE OFTUNULT'S CAVERN

 The confusion was immediate and complete, koboldsswarming in by the dozens, and tough dwarves forminginto tight battle groups and rushing fast to meet them.

 Catti-brie put her magical bow up and fired arrowafter arrow, aiming for the main entrance. Lightning flashed witheach shot as the enchanted bolt sped off, crackling and sparking every time it skipped off a wall. Kobolds went down in a line, onearrow often killing several, but it hardly seemed to matter, so great was the invading throng.

 Guenhwyvar leaped away, Drizzt quick-stepping behind. Ascore of kobolds had somehow wriggled past the initial fights andwere bearing down on Bruenor's position. A shot from Catti-briefelled one; Guenhwyvar's plunge scattered the rest, and Drizzt, moving quicker than ever, slipped in, stabbed one, pivoted andspun to the left, launching the blue-glowing Twinkle against theattempted parry of another. Had Twinkle been a straight blade, thekobold's small sword would have deflected it high, but Drizztdeftly turned the curving weapon over in his hand and slightly

 altered the angle of his attack. Twinkle rolled over the kobold'ssword and dove into its chest.

 The drow had never stopped his run and now skittered back tothe right and slid to one knee. Across came Twinkle, slappingagainst one kobold blade, driving it hard into a second. Stronger than both the creatures combined, and with a better angle, Drizzt forced their swords and their defense high, and his second scimitarslashed across the other way, disemboweling one and taking thelegs out from under the other.

 "Damn drow's stealing all the fun," Bruenor muttered, runningto catch up to the fray. Between Drizzt, the panther, and Catti-brie'scontinuing barrage, few of the twenty kobolds still stood by the timehe got there, and those few had turned in full flight.

 "Plenty more to kill," Drizzt said into Bruenor's scowl, recognizing the sour look.

 A line of silver-streaking arrow cut between them as soon as thewords had left the drow's mouth. When the spots cleared frombefore their eyes, the two turned and regarded the scorched anddead kobolds taken down by Catti-brie's latest shot.

 Then she, too, was beside them, Khazid'hea in hand, and Regis,holding the little mace Bruenor had long ago forged for him, wasbeside her. Catti-brie shrugged as her friends regarded the change inweapon, and, looking about, they understood her tactics. With morekobolds pouring in, and more dwarves coming out of the otherchambers to meet the charge, it was simply too confusing and congested for the woman to safely continue with her bow.

 "Run on," Catti-brie said, a wistful smile crossing her fair features.

 Drizzt returned the look, and Bruenor, even Regis, had a sparkle in his eye. Suddenly it seemed like old times.

 Guenhwyvar led their charge, Bruenor fighting hard to keepclose to the panther's tail. Catti-brie and Regis flanked the dwarf, and Drizzt, speeding and spinning, flanked the group, first on theleft, then on the right, seeming to be wherever battle was joined,running too fast to be believed.

 * * * * *

 Bidderdoo Harpell knew he had erred. Drizzt had asked him to get to the door, to wait for the first drow to show themselves inside

 the cavern and then launch a fireball back down the tunnel, where theflames would burn through the supporting ropes and drop the

 stone.

 "Not a difficult task," Bidderdoo had assured Drizzt, and so itshould not have been. The wizard had memorized a spell that couldput him in position, and knew others to keep him safely hiddenuntil the blast was complete. So when all about him had run off to joinin the fracas, they had gone reassured that the traps would be sprung, that the tunnels would be dropped, and that the tide of enemies would be stemmed.

 Something went wrong. Bidderdoo had begun casting the spellto get him to the tunnel entrance, had even outlined the extradimensional portal that would reopen at the desired spot, but then thewizard had seen a group of kobolds, and they had seen him. This was not hard to do, for Bidderdoo, a human and not blessed with sight that could extend into the infrared spectrum, carried a shininggemstone. Kobolds were not stupid creatures, not when it came to battle, and they recognized this seemingly out-of-place human forwhat he was. Even the most inexperienced of kobold fighters under stood the value of getting to a wizard, of forcing a dangerous spell-caster into melee combat, keeping his hands tied up with weaponsrather than often explosive components.

 Still, Bidderdoo could have beaten their charge, could havestepped through the dimensions to get to his appointed position.

 For seven years, until the Time of Troubles, Bidderdoo Harpellhad lived with the effects of a potion gone awry, had lived as the Harpell family dog. When magic went crazy, Bidderdoo hadreverted to his human form—long enough, at least, to get the necessary ingredients together to counteract the wild potion. Soon after, Bidderdoo had gone back to his flea-bitten self, but he had helpedhis family find the means to get him out of the enchantment. A greatdebate had followed in the Ivy Mansion as to whether they should"cure" Bidderdoo or not. It seemed that many of the Harpells hadgrown quite fond of the dog, more so than they had ever lovedBidderdoo as a human.

 Bidderdoo had even served as Harkle's seeing-eye dog on along stretch of the journey to Mithril Hall, when Harkle had no eyes.

 But then magic had straightened out, and the debate becamemoot, for the enchantment had simply gone away.

 Or had it? Bidderdoo had held no doubts about the integrity ofhis cure until this very moment, until he saw the kobolds approaching. His upper lip curled back in an open snarl; he felt the hair onthe back of his neck bristling and felt his tailbone tighten—if he stillhad a tail, it would be straight out behind him!

 He started down into a crouch, and noticed only then that hehad not paws, but hands, hands that held no weapons. He groaned,for the kobolds were only ten feet away.

 The wizard went for a spell instead. He put the tips of his thumbs together, hands out wide to each side, and chanted frantically.

 The kobolds came in, straight ahead and flanking, and the closest of them had a sword high for a strike.

 Bidderdoo's hands erupted in flame, jets of scorching, searingfire, arcing out in a semicircle.

 Half a dozen kobolds lay dead, and several others blinked inamazement through singed eyelashes.

 "Hah!" Bidderdoo cried, and snapped his fingers.

 The kobolds blinked again and charged, and Bidderdoo had nospells quick enough to stop them.

 *   *   *  *   *

 At first the kobolds and goblins seemed a swarming, confusedmass, and so it remained for many of the undisciplined brawlers. But several groups had trained for war extensively in the cavernsbeneath the complex of House Oblodra. One of these, fifty strong,formed into a tight wedge, three large kobolds at the tip and a tightline running back and wide to each side.

 They entered the main chamber, avoided combat enough toform up, and headed straight to the left, toward the loomingentrance of one of the side caverns. Mostly the dwarves avoidedthem, with so many other easier kills available, and the koboldgroup almost got to the side chamber unscathed.

 Coming out of that chamber, though, was a group of a dozendwarves. The bearded warriors hooted and roared and came onfiercely, but the kobold formation did not waver, worked to perfection as it split the dwarven line almost exactly in half, then widenedthe gap with the lead kobolds pressing to the very entrance of the side chamber. A couple of kobolds went down in that charge, and

 one dwarf died, but the kobold ranks tightened again immediately, and those dwarves caught along the inside line, caught between thekobolds and the main cavern's low sloping wall, found themselvesin dire straights indeed.

 Across the way, the "free" half of the dwarven group realized their error, that they had taken the kobolds too lightly and had notexpected such intricate tactics. Their kin would be lost, and therewas nothing they could do to get through this surprisingly tight,disciplined formation—made even tighter by the fact that, in goingnear the wall, the kobolds went under some low-hanging stalactites.

 The dwarves attacked fiercely anyway, spurred on by the cries of their apparently doomed companions.

 Guenhwyvar was low to the ground, low enough to skitterunder any stalactites. The panther hit the back of the kobold formation in full stride, blasting two kobolds away and running over athird, claws digging in for a better hold as the cat crossed over.

 Drizzt came in behind, sliding to one knee again and killing twokobolds in the first attack routine. Beside him charged Regis, notaller than a kobold and fighting straight up and even against one.

 With his great, sweeping style of axe-fighting, Bruenor foundthe tight quarters uncomfortable at best. Even worse off was Catti-brie, not as agile or quick as Drizzt. If she went down to one knee, ashad the drow, she would be at a huge disadvantage indeed.

 But standing straight, a stalactite in her face, she wasn't muchbetter off.

 Khazid'hea gave her the answer.

 It went against every instinct the woman had, was contrary toeverything Bruenor (who had spent much of his life repairing damaged weapons) had taught her about fighting. But, hardly thinking,Catti-brie clasped her sword hilt in both hands and brought themagnificent weapon streaking straight across, up high.

 Khazid'hea's red line flashed angrily as the sword connected onthe hanging stone. Catti-brie's momentum slowed, but only slightly, for Cutter lived up to its name, shearing through the rock. Catti-briejerked to the side as the sword exited the stalactite, and she wouldhave been vulnerable in that instant—except that the two kobolds information right before her were suddenly more concerned that thesky was falling.

 One got crushed under the stalactite, and the other's death was

 just as quick, as Bruenor, seeing the opening, rushed in with anoverhead chop that nearly took the wretched thing in half.

 Those dwarves that had been separated on the outside ranktook heart at the arrival of so powerful a group, and they pressedthe kobold line fiercely, calling out to their trapped companions to"hold fast!" and promising that help would soon arrive.

 Regis hated to fight, at least when his opponent could see himcoming. He was needed now, though. He knew that, and would notshirk his responsibilities. Beside him, Drizzt was fighting from hisknees; how could the halfling, who would have to get up on his tiptoes to bang his head on a stalactite, justify standing behind his drow friend this time?

 Both hands on his mace handle, Regis went in fiercely. Hesmiled as he actually scored a hit, the well-forged weapon crumbling a kobold arm.

 Even as that opponent fell away, though, another squeezed inand struck, its sword catching Regis under his upraised arm. Onlyfine dwarven armor saved him—he made a note to buy BusterBracer a few large mugs of mead if he ever got out of this alive.

 Tough was the dwarven armor, but the kobold's head was notas tough, as the halfling's mace proved a moment later.

 "Well done," Drizzt congratulated, his battle ebbing enough for him to witness the halfling's strike.

 Regis tried to smile, but winced instead at the pain of hisbruised ribs.

 Drizzt noted the look and skittered across in front of Regis,meeting the charge as the kobold formation shifted to compensatefor the widening breach. The drow's scimitars went into a wilddance, slashing and chopping, often banging against the low-hanging stalactites, throwing sparks, but more often connecting onkobolds.

 To the side, Catti-brie and Bruenor had formed up into animpromptu alliance, Bruenor holding back the enemy, while Catti-brie and Cutter continued to clear a higher path, dropping the hanging stones one at a time.

 Across the way, though, the dwarves remained sorely pressed,with two down and the other five taking many hits. None of thefriends could get to them in time, they knew, none could crossthrough the tight formation.

  

 None except Guenhwyvar.

 Flying like a black arrow, the panther bored on, running downkobold after kobold, shrugging off many wicked strikes. Blood streamed from the panther's flanks, but Guenhwyvar would not bedeterred. She got to the dwarves and bolstered their line, and their cheer at her appearance was of pure delight and salvation.

 A song on their lips, the dwarves fought on, the panther fought on, and the kobolds could not finish the task. With the press across the way, the formation soon crumbled, and the dwarven group was reunited, that the wounded could be taken from the cavern.

 Drizzt and Catti-brie's concern for Guenhwyvar was stolen bythe panther's roar, and its flight, as Guenhwyvar led the five friends off to the next place where they would be needed most.

 *   *   *  *   *

 Bidderdoo closed his eyes, wondering what mysteries deathwould reveal.

 He hoped there would be some, at least.

 He heard a roar, then a clash of steel in front of him. Then came agrunt, and the sickening thud of a torn body slapping against thehard floor.

 They are fighting over who gets to kill me, the mage thought.

 More roars—dwarven roars!—and more grunts; more torn bodies falling to the stone.

 Bidderdoo opened his eyes to see the kobold ranks decimated, to see a handful of the dirtiest, smelliest dwarves imaginable hopping up and down about him, pointing this way and that, as they ofthe Gutbuster Brigade tried to figure out where they might nextcause the most havoc.

 Bidderdoo took a moment to regard the kobolds, a dozencorpses that had been more than killed. "Shredded," he whispered, and he nodded, deciding that was a better word.

 "Ye're all right now," said one of the dwarves—Bidderdoothought he had heard this one's name as Thibbledorf Pwent or some such thing (not that anyone named Bidderdoo could tossinsults regarding names). "And me and me own're off!" the wildbattlerager huffed.

 Bidderdoo nodded, then realized he still had a serious problem.

 He had only prepared for one spell that could open such a dimensional door, and that one was wasted, the enchantment expired ashe had battled with the kobolds.

 "Wait!" he screamed at Pwent, and he surprised himself, andthe dwarf, for along with his words came out a caninelike yelp.

 Pwent regarded the Harpell curiously. He hopped up rightbefore Bidderdoo and cocked his head to the side, a movementexaggerated by the tilting helmet spike.

 "Wait. Pray, do not run off, good and noble dwarf," Bidderdoosaid sweetly, needing assistance.

 Pwent looked around and behind, as if trying to figure out whothis mage was talking to. The other Gutbusters were similarly confused, some standing and staring blankly, scratching their heads.

 Pwent poked a stubby, dirty finger into his own chest, hisexpression showing that he hardly considered himself "good andnoble. "

 "Do not leave me," Bidderdoo pleaded.

 "Ye're still alive," Pwent countered. "And there's not much forkillin' over here." As though that were explanation enough, thebattlerager spun and took a stride away.

 "But I've failed!" Bidderdoo wailed, and a howl escaped his lipsat the end of the sentence.

 "Ye've fail-doooo?" Pwent asked.

 "Oh, we are all do-oooo-omed!" the howling mage went on dramatically. "It's too-oooo far. "

 All the battleragers were around Bidderdoo by this point,intrigued by the strange accent, or whatever it was. The closest enemies, a band of goblins, could have attacked then, but none wantedto go anywhere near this wild troupe, a point made especially clearwith the last group of kobolds lying in bloody pieces about the area.

 "Ye better be quick and to the point," Pwent, anxious to killagain, barked at Bidderdoo.

 "Oooo. "

 "And stop the damned howlin'!" the battlerager demanded.

 In truth, poor Bidderdoo wasn't howling on purpose. In thestress of the situation, the mage who had lived so long as a dog wasunintentionally recalling the experience, discovering once morethose primal canine instincts. He took a deep breath and pointedlyreminded himself he was a man, not a dog. "I must get to the tunnel

 entrance, he said without a howl, yip, or yelp. "The drow ranger bade me to send a spell down the corridor. "

 "I'm not for carin' for wizard stuff," Pwent interrupted, and turned away once more.

 "Are ye for droppin' the stinkin' tunnel on the stinkin' drow's heads?" Bidderdoo asked in his best battlerager imitation.

 "Bah!" Pwent snorted, and all the dwarven heads were bobbing eagerly about him. "Me and me own'll get ye there!"

 Bidderdoo took care to keep his visage stern, but silentlythought himself quite clever for appealing to the wild dwarves'hunger for carnage.

 In the blink of a dog's eye, Bidderdoo was swept up in the tideof running Gutbusters. The wizard suggested a roundabout route,skirting the left-hand, or northern, side of the cavern, where the fighting had become less intense.

 Silly mage.

 The Gutbuster Brigade ran straight through, ran down kobolds and the larger goblins who had come in behind the kobold ranks.They almost buried a couple of dwarves who weren't quick enoughin diving aside; they bounced off stalagmites, ricocheting androlling on. Before Bidderdoo could even begin to protest the tactic,he found himself nearing the appointed spot, the entrance to thetunnel.

 He spent a brief moment wondering which was faster, a spell opening a dimensional door or a handful of battle-hungry battleragers. He even entertained the creation of a new spell,Battlerager Escort, but he shook that notion away as a more immediate problem, a pairof huge, bull-headed minotaurs and a dark elf behind them, entered the cavern.

 "Defensive posture!" cried Bidderdoo. "You must hold themoff! Defensive posture!"

 Silly mage.

 The closest two Gutbusters flew headlong, diving into the feetof the towering, eight-foot monsters. Before they even realized whathad hit them, the minotaurs were falling forward. Neither made itunobstructed to the ground, though, as Pwent and another wild-eyed dwarf roared in, butting the minotaurs head-to-head.

 A globe of darkness appeared behind the tumble, and the drow was nowhere to be seen.

 Bidderdoo wisely began his spellcasting. The drow were here!Just as Drizzt had figured, the dark elves were coming in behind thekobold fodder. If he could get the fireball away now, if he coulddrop the tunnel...

 He had to force the words through a guttural, instinctual growl coming from somewhere deep in his throat. He had the urge to jointhe Gutbusters, who were all clamoring over the fallen minotaurs,taking the brutes apart mercilessly. He had the urge to join in thefeast.

 "The feast?" he asked aloud.

 Bidderdoo shook his head and began again, concentrating onthe spell. Apparently hearing the wizard's rhythmic cadence, thedrow came out of the darkness, hand-crossbow up and ready.

 Bidderdoo closed his eyes, forced the words to flow as fast aspossible. He felt the sting of the dart, right in the belly, but his concentration was complete and he did not flinch, did not interrupt thespell.

 His legs went weak under him; he heard the drow coming,imagined a shining sword poised for a killing strike.

 Bidderdoo's concentration held. He completed the dweomer,and a small, glowing ball of fire leaped out from his hand, soaredthrough the darkness beyond, down the tunnel.

 Bidderdoo teetered with weakness. He opened his eyes, but the cavern about him was blurry and wavering. Then he fell backward,fell as though the floor were rushing up to swallow him.

 Somewhere in the back of his mind he expected to hit the stone hard, but then the fireball went off.

 Then the tunnel fell.

 Chapter 21

 ONE FOR THE GOOD GUYS

 A heavy burden weighed on the most honored burrow warden's strong shoulders, but Belwar did not stoop as hemarched through the long, winding tunnels. He had madethe decision with a clear mind and definite purpose, and he simply refused to second-guess himself all the way to Mithril Hall.

 His opponents in the debate had argued that Belwar was motivated by personal friendship, not the best interests of the svirfnebli. Firble had learned that Drizzt Do'Urden, Belwar's drow friend, had escaped Menzoberranzan, and the drow march, by all indications,was straight for Mithril Hall, no doubt motivated in part by Lloth's proclaimed hatred of the renegade.

 Would Belwar lead Blingdenstone to war, then, for the sake of asingle drow?

 In the end, that vicious argument had been settled not by Bel-war, but by Firble, another of the oldest svirfnebli, another of thosewho had felt the pain most keenly when Blingdenstone had beenleft behind.

 "A clear choice we have," Firble had said. "Go now and see if wecan aid the enemies of the dark elves, or a new home we must find, for

 the drow will surely return, and if we stand then, we stand alone. "

 It was a terrible, difficult decision for the council and for King Schnicktick. If they followed the dark elves and found their suspicions confirmed, found a war on the surface, could they even counton the alliance of the surface dwarves and the humans, races thedeep gnomes did not know?

 Belwar assured them they could. With all his heart, the mosthonored burrow warden believed that Drizzt, and any friendsDrizzt had made, would not let him down. And Firble, who knewthe outside world so well (but was, by his own admission, somewhat ignorant of the surface), agreed with Belwar, simply on thelogic that any race, even not-so-intelligent goblins, would welcomeallies against the dark elves.

 So Schnicktick and the council had finally agreed, but, likeevery other decision of the ultimately conservative svirfnebli, theywould go only so far. Belwar could march in pursuit of the drow,and Firble with him, along with any gnomes who volunteered. Theywere scouts, Schnicktick had emphasized, and no marching army. The svirfneblin king and all those who had opposed Belwar's reasoning were surprised to find how many volunteered for the long,dangerous march. So many, in fact, that Schnicktick, for the simple sake of the city operation, had to limit the number to fifteen score.

 Belwar knew why the other svirfnebli had come, and knew the truth of his own decision. If the dark elves went to the surface andoverwhelmed Mithril Hall, they would not allow the gnomes back into Blingdenstone. Menzoberranzan did not conquer, then leave.No, it would enslave the dwarves and work the mines as its own, then pity Blingdenstone, for the svirfneblin city would be too closeto the easiest routes to the conquered land.

 So although all of these svirfnebli, Belwar and Firble included, were marching farther from Blingdenstone than they had ever gonebefore, they knew that they were, in effect, fighting for their homeland.

 Belwar would not second-guess that decision, and, keeping thatin mind, his burden was lessened.

 *  *  *  *   *

 Bidderdoo put the fireball far down the tunnel, but the narrowways could not contain the sheer volume of the blast. A line of fire

 rushed out of the tunnel, back into the cavern, like the breath of anangry red dragon, and Bidderdoo's own clothes lit up. The magescreamed—as did every dwarf and kobold near him, as did the next line of minotaurs, rushing down for the cavern, as did the skulking dark elves behind them.

 In the moment of the wizard's fireball, all of them screamed,and, just as quickly, the cries went away, extinguished, overwhelmed, by hundreds of tons of dropping stone.

 Again the backlash swept into the cavern, a blast so strong that thegust of it blew away the fires licking at Bidderdoo's robes. He was flying suddenly, as were all those near him, flying and dazed, pelted withstone, and extremely lucky, for none of the dropping, stalactites ortheheavy stone displaced in the cavern squashed him.

 The ground trembled and bucked; one of the cavern walls buckled, and one of the side chambers collapsed. Then it was done, andthe tunnel was gone, just gone, as though it had never been there,and the chamber that had been named for the dwarf Tunult seemedmuch smaller.

 Bidderdoo pulled himself up from the piled dust and debrisshakily and brushed the dirt from his glowing gemstone. With allthe dust in the air, the light from the enchanted stone seemed meager indeed. The wizard looked at himself, seeing more skin thanclothing, seeing dozens of bruises and bright red on one arm, under the clinging dust, where the fires had gotten to his skin.

 A helmet spike, bent slightly to the side, protruded from a pile notfar away. Bidderdoo was about to speak a lament for the battlerager,who had gotten him to the spot, but Pwent suddenly burst up fromthe dust, spitting pebbles and smiling crazily.

 "Well done!" the battlerager roared. "Do it again!"

 Bidderdoo started to respond, but then he swooned, the insidious drow poison defeating the momentary jolt of adrenaline. Thenext thing the unfortunate wizard knew, Pwent was holding him upand he was gagging on the most foul-tasting concoction everbrewed. Foul but effective, for Bidderdoo's grogginess was no more.

 "Gutbuster!" Pwent roared, patting the trusty flask on his broadbelt.

 As the dust settled, the bodies stirred, one by one. To a dwarf, theGutbuster Brigade, tougher than the stone, remained, and the fewkobolds that had survived were cut down before they could plead.

 The way the cavern had collapsed, with the nearest side chambergone, and the wall opposite that having buckled, this small groupfound itself cut off from the main force. They weren't trapped,though, for one narrow passage led to the left, back toward the heartof Tunult's Cavern. The fighting in there had resumed, so it seemedfrom the ring of metal and the calls of both dwarves and kobolds.

 Unexpectedly, Thibbledorf Pwent did not lead his force headlong into the fray. The passage was narrow at this end, and seemedto narrow even more just a short way in, so much so that Pwent didn't even think they could squeeze through. Also, the battleragerspotted something over Bidderdoo's shoulder, a deep crack in thewall to the side of the dropped tunnel. As he neared the spot, Pwentfelt the stiff breeze rushing out of the crack, as the air pressure in the tunnels beyond adjusted to the catastrophe.

 Pwent hooted and slammed the wall below the crack with allhis strength. The loose stone gave way and fell in, revealing a passageway angling into the deeper corridors beyond.

 "We should go back and report to King Bruenor," Bidderdooreasoned, "or go as far as the tunnel takes us, to let them know weare in here, that they might dig us out. "

 Pwent snorted. "Wouldn't be much at scoutin' if we let this tunnel pass," he argued. "If the drow find it, they'll be back quickerthan Bruenor's expectin'. Now that's a report worth givin'!"

 In truth, it was difficult for the outrageous dwarven warrior toignore those tempting sounds of battle, but Pwent found his heartseeking the promise of greater enemies, of drow and minotaurs, in theopen corridors the other way.

 "And if we get stuck in that tunnel there," Pwent continued,pointing back toward what remained of Tunult's Cavern, "thedamned drow'll walk right up our backs!"

 The Gutbuster Brigade formed up behind their leader, but Bidderdoo shook his head and squeezed into the passage. His worstfears were quickly realized, for it did indeed narrow, and he couldnot get near the open area beyond, where the fighting continued,could not even get close enough to hope to attract attention abovethe tumult of battle.

 Perhaps he had a spell that would aid him, Bidderdoo reasoned,and he reached into an impossibly deep pocket to retrieve his treasured spellbook. He pulled out a lump of ruffled pages, smeared

 and singed, many with ink blotched from the intense heat. The glueand stitches in the binding, too, had melted, and when Bidderdooheld the mess up, it fell apart.

 The wizard, breathing hard suddenly, feeling as if the world were closing in on him, gathered together as many of the parchments as he could and scrambled back out of the passageway, tofind, to his surprise and relief, Pwent and the others still waiting forhim.

 "Figgered ye'd change yer mind," the battlerager remarked,and he led the Gutbuster Brigade, plus one, away.

 *   *   *  *   *

 Fifty drow and an entire minotaur grouping,Quenthel Baenre's hands flashed, and from the sharp, jerking movements, her motherknew she was outraged.

 Fool, Matron Baenre mused. She wondered then about herdaughter's heart for this expedition. Quenthel was a powerfulpriestess, there could be no denying that, but only then did thewithered old matron mother realize that young Quenthel had never really seen battle. House Baenre had not warred in many hundredsof years, and because of her accelerated education through theAcademy, Quenthel had been spared the duties of escorting scout ing patrols in the wild tunnels outside Menzoberranzan.

 It struck Baenre then that her daughter had never even beenoutside the drow city.

 The primary way to Mithril Hall is no more,Quenthel's hands wenton.And several paralleling passages have fallen as well. And worse,Quenthel stopped abruptly, had to pause and take a deep breath tosteady herself. When she began again, her face was locked in a maskof anger.Many of the dead drow were females, several powerful priestesses and one a high priestess.

 Still the movements were exaggerated, too sharp and too quick.Did Quenthel really believe this conquest would be easy? Baenrewondered. Did she think no drow would be killed?

 Baenre wondered, and not for the first time, whether she haderred in bringing Quenthel along. Perhaps she should have broughtTriel, the most capable of priestesses.

 Quenthel studied the hard look that was coming at her and

 understood that her mother was not pleased. It took her a momentto realize she was irritating Baenre more than the bad report wouldwarrant.

 "The lines are moving?" Baenre asked aloud.

 Quenthel cleared her throat. "Bregan D'aerthe has discoveredmany other routes," she answered, "even corridors the dwarves donot know about, which come close to tunnels leading to Mithril Hall. "

 Matron Baenre closed her eyes and nodded, approving of herdaughter's suddenly renewed optimism. There were indeed tunnelsthe dwarves did not know about, small passages beneath the lowestlevels of Mithril Hall lost as the dwarves continued to shift theirmining operations to richer veins. Old Gandalug knew thoseancient, secret ways, though, and with Methil's intrusive interrogation, the drow knew them as well. These secret tunnels did not actually connect to the dwarven compound, but wizards could opendoors where there were none, and illithids could walk throughstone and could take drow warriors with them on their psionic journeys.

 Baenre's eyes popped open. "Word from Berg'inyon?" sheasked.

 Quenthel shook her head. "He exited the tunnels, as commanded, but we have not heard since. "

 Baenre's features grew cross. She knew that Berg'inyon was outwardly pouting at being sent outside. He led the greatest cohesive unit of all, numerically speaking, nearly a thousand drow and fivetimes that in goblins and kobolds, with many of the dark elves riding huge lizards. But Berg'inyon's duties, though vital to the conquest of Mithril Hall, put him on the mountainside outside thedwarven complex. Very likely, Drizzt Do'Urden would be inside, inthe lowest tunnels, working in an environment more suited to adark elf. Very likely, Uthegental Armgo, not Berg'inyon, would get first try at the renegade.

 Baenre's scowl turned to a smile as she considered her son andhis tantrum when she had given him his assignment. Of course hehad to act angry, even outraged. Of course he had to protest that he,not Uthegental, should spearhead the assault through the tunnels.But Berg'inyon had been Drizzt's classmate and primary rival intheir years at Melee-Magthere, the drow school for fighters.Berg'inyon knew Drizzt perhaps better than any living drow in

 Menzoberranzan. And Matron Baenre knew Berg'inyon.

 The truth of it was, Berg'inyon didn't want anything to do with the dangerous renegade.

 "Search out your brother with your magic," Baenre said suddenly, startling Quenthel. "If he continues his obstinacy, replacehim. "

 Quenthel's eyes widened with horror. She had been withBerg'inyon when the force had exited the tunnels, crossing out ontoa ledge on a mountain overlooking a deep ravine. The sight hadoverwhelmed her, had dizzied her, and many other drow as well.She felt lost out there, insignificant and vulnerable. This cavern thatwas the surface world, this great chamber whose black domesparkled with pinpoints of unknown light, was too vast for her sensibilities.

 Matron Baenre did not appreciate the horrified expression."Go!" she snapped, and Quenthel quietly slipped away.

 She was hardly out of sight before the next reporting drowstepped before Baenre's blue-glowing driftdisk.

 Her report, of the progress of the force moving secretly in thelower tunnels, was better, but Baenre hardly listened. To her, thesedetails were fast becoming tedious. The dwarves were good, andhad many months to prepare, but in the end, Matron Baenre did notdoubt the outcome, for she believed that Lloth herself had spoken toher. The drow would win, and Mithril Ha llwould fall.

 She listened to the report, though, and to the next, and the next, and the next after that, a seemingly endless stream, and forced herself to look interested.

 Chapter 22

 STAR LIGHT, STAR BRIGHT

 From her high perch, her eyesight enhanced by magicaldweomers, they seemed an army of ants, swarmingover the eastern and steepest side of the mountain, filling every vale, clambering over every rock. Filtering behind in tight formations came the deeper blackness, the tight formations of drow warriors.

 Never had the Lady of Silverymoon seen such a disconcertingsight, never had she been so filled with trepidation, though she hadendured many wars and many perilous adventures. Alustriel's visage did not reflect those battles. She was as fair as any woman alive,her skin smooth and pale, almost translucent, and her hair long andsilvery—not gray with age, though she was indeed very old, butlustrous and rich, the quiet light of night and the sparkling brightness of stars all mixed together. Indeed, the fair lady had endured many wars, and the sorrow of those conflicts was reflected in hereyes, as was the wisdom to despise war.

 Across the way toward the southern face, around the bend ofthe conical mountain, Alustriel could see the banners of the gathered forces, most prominent among them the silver flag of her own

 knights. They were proud and anxious, Alustriel knew, becausemost of them were young and did not know grief.

 The Lady of Silverymoon shook away the disconcertingthoughts and focused on what likely would transpire, what her rolemight be.

 The bulk of the enemy force was kobolds, and she figured thatthe huge barbarians and armored riders should have little trouble in scattering them.

 But how would they fare against the drow? Alustriel wondered.She brought her flying chariot in a wide loop, watching and waiting.

 *   *   *  *   *

 Skirmishes erupted along the point line, as human scouts metthe advancing kobolds.

 At the sound of battle, and with reports filtering back, Berkthgar was anxious to loose his forces, to charge off to fight and diewith a song to Tempus on his lips.

 Besnell, who led the Knights in Silver, was a tempered fighter,and more the strategist. "Hold your men in check," he bade theeager barbarian. "We will see more fighting this night than any ofus, even Tempus, your god of battle, would enjoy. Better that wefight them on ground of our choosing." Indeed, the knight had beencareful in selecting that very ground, and had argued against bothBerkthgar and King Bruenor himself to win over their support forhis plan. The forces had been broken into four groups, spaced alongthe south side of the mountain, Fourthpeak, which held bothentrances to Mithril Hall. Northwest around the mountain layKeeper's Dale, a wide, deep, rock-strewn, and mist-filled valleywherein lay the secret western door to the dwarven complex.

 From the soldiers' positions northeast around the mountain,across wide expanses of open rock and narrow, crisscrossing trails,lay the longer, more commonly used path to Mithril Hall's easterndoor.

 Bruenor's emissaries had wanted the force to split, the ridersgoing to defend Keeper's Dale and the men of Settlestone guardingthe eastern trails. Besnell had held firm his position, though, andhad enlisted Berkthgar by turning the situation back on the prouddwarves, by insisting that they should be able to conceal and defend

 their own entrances. "If the drow know where the entrances lie," hehad argued, "then that is where they will expect resistance. "

 Thus, the south side of Fourthpeak was chosen. Below the positions of the defenders the trails were many, but above them the cliffsgrew much steeper, so they expected no attack from that direction.The defenders' groups were mixed according to terrain, one position of narrow, broken trails exclusively barbarians, two havingboth barbarians and riders, and one, a plateau above a wide,smooth, gradually inclined rock face, comprised wholly of the Riders of Nesme.

 Besnell and Berkthgar watched and waited now from the second position. They knew the battle was imminent; the men aboutthem could feel the hush, the crouch of the approaching army. Thearea lower on the mountain, to the east, exploded suddenly inbursts of shining light as a rain of enchanted pellets, gifts fromdwarven clerics, came down from the barbarians of the first defense.

 How the kobolds scrambled! As did the few dark elves amongthe diminutive creatures' front ranks. Those monsters highest on the face, near the secret position, were overwhelmed, a horde of mightybarbarians descending over them, splitting them in half with hugeswords and battle-axes, or simply lifting the kobolds high over head and hurling them down the mountainside.

 "Wo must go out and meet them!" Berkthgar roared, seeing his kin engaged. He raised huge Bankenfuere high into the air. "To theglory of Tempus!" he roared, a cry repeated by all those barbarianson the second position, and those on the third as well.

 "So much for ambush," muttered Regweld Harpell, seated on his horse-frog, Puddlejumper. With a nod to Besnell, for the time drew near, Regweld gave a slight tug on Puddlejumper's rein andthe weird beast croaked out a guttural whinny and leaped to thewest, clearing thirty feet.

 "Not yet," Besnell implored Berkthgar, the barbarian's handcupping a dozen or so of the magic light-giving pellets. The knight pointed out the movements of the enemy force below, explained toBerkthgar that, while many climbed up to meet the defenders holding the easternmost position, many, many more continued to filteralong the lower trails to the west. Also, the light was not so intenseanymore, as dark elves used their innate abilities to counter the stingingly bright enchantments.

 "What are you waiting for?" Berkthgar demanded.

 Besnell continued to hold his hand in the air, continued to delaythe charge.

 To the east, a barbarian screamed as he saw that his form was outlined suddenly by blue flames, magical fires that did not burn.They weren't truly harmless, though, for in the night, they gave the man's position clearly away. The sound of many crossbows clickedfrom somewhere below, and the unfortunate barbarian cried outagain and again, then he fell silent.

 That was more than enough for Berkthgar, and he hurled outthe pellets. His nearby kin did likewise, and this second section ofthe south face brightened with magic. Down charged the men ofSettlestone, to Besnell's continuing dismay. The riders should havegone down first, but not yet, not until the bulk of the enemy force had passed.

 "We must," whispered the knight behind the elven leader fromSilverymoon, and Besnell quietly nodded. He surveyed the scenefor just a moment. Berkthgar and his hundred were alreadyengaged, straight down the face, with no hope of linking up with those brave men holding the high ground in the east. Despite hisanger at the impetuous barbarian, Besnell marveled at Berkthgar'sexploits. Mighty Bankenfuere took out three kobolds at a swipe,launching them, whole or in parts, high into the air.

 "The light will not hold," the knight behind Besnell remarked.

 "Between the two forces," Besnell replied, speaking loudenough so that all those riders around him could hear. "We must godown at an angle, between the two forces, so that the men in the eastcan escape behind us. "

 Not a word of complaint came back to him, though his chosencourse was treacherous indeed. The original plan had called for theKnights in Silver to ride straight into the enemy, both from this position and the next position to the west, while Berkthgar and his menlinked behind them, the whole of the defending force rolling gradually to the west. Now Berkthgar, in his bloodlust, had abandonedthat plan, and the Knights in Silver might pay dearly for the act. Butneither man nor elf complained.

 "Keep fast your pellets," Besnell commanded, "until the drowcounter what light is already available. "

 He reared his horse once, for effect.

 "For the glory of Silverymoon!" he cried.

 "And the good of all good folk!" came the unified response.

 Their thunder shook the side of Fourthpeak, resonated deepinto the dwarven tunnels below the stone. To the blare of horns,down they charged, a hundred riders, lances low, and when thoselong spears became entangled or snapped apart as they skeweredthe enemy, out came flashing swords.

 More deadly were the sturdy mounts, crushing kobolds underpounding hooves, scattering and terrifying kobolds and goblins anddrow alike, for these invaders from the deepest Underdark hadnever seen such a cavalry charge.

 In mere minutes the enemy advance up the mountain washalted and reversed, with only a few of the defenders taken down.And as the dark elves continued to counter the light pellets,Besnell's men countered their spells with still more light pellets.

 But the dark force continued its roll along the lower trails, evidenced by the blare of horns to the west, the calls to Tempus and toLongsaddle, and the renewed thunder as the Longriders followedthe lead of the Knights in Silver.

 The first real throw of magic led the charge from that third position, a lightning bolt from Regweld that split the darkness, causing more horror than destruction.

 Surprisingly, there came no magical response from the drow,other than minor darkness spells or faerie fire limning selecteddefenders.

 The remaining barbarian force did as the plan had demanded,angling between the Longriders and the area just below the secondposition, linking up, not with the Knights in Silver, as was originally planned, but with Berkthgar and his force.

 *   *   *  *   *

 High above the battle, Alustriel used all her discipline andrestraint to hold herself in check. The defenders were, as expected,slicing the kobold and goblin ranks to pieces, killing the enemy in aratio far in excess of fifty to one.

 That number would have easily doubled had Alustriel loosedher magic, but she could not. The drow were waiting patiently, andshe respected the powers of those evil elves enough to know that

  

 her first attack might be her only one.

 She whispered to the enchanted horses pulling the aerial chariotand moved lower, nodding grimly as she confirmed that the battlewas going as anticipated. The slaughter high on the south face wascomplete, but the dark mass continued to flow below the struggle to the west.

 Alustriel understood that many drow were among the ranks ofthat lower group.

 The chariot swooped to the east, swiftly left the battle behind,and the Lady of Silverymoon took some comfort in the realizationthat the enemy lines were not so long, not so far beyond the easternmost of the defensive positions.

 She came to understand why when she heard yet another battle,around the mountain, to the east. The enemy had found MithrilHall's eastern door, had entered the complex, and was battling the dwarves within!

 Flashes of lightning and bursts of fire erupted within the shadows of that low door, and the creatures that entered were notdiminutive kobolds or stupid goblins. They were dark elves, many,many dark elves.

 She wanted to go down there, to rush over the enemy in a magical, explosive fury, but Alustriel had to trust in Bruenor's people.The tunnels had been prepared, she knew, and the attack from outside the mountain had been expected.

 Her chariot flew on, around to the north, and Alustriel thoughtto complete the circuit, to cut low through Keeper's Dale in the east,where the other allies, another hundred of her Knights in Silver,waited.

 What she saw did not settle well, did not comfort her.

 The northern face of Fourthpeak was a treacherous, barrenstretch of virtually unclimbable rock faces and broken ravines that no man could pass.

 Virtually unclimbable, but not to the sticky feet of giant subterranean lizards.

 Berg'inyon Baenre and his elite force, the four hundred famed lizard riders of House Baenre, scrambled across that northern facing, making swift progress to the west, toward Keeper's Dale,

 The waiting knights had been positioned to shore up the finaldefenses against the force crossing the southern face. Their charge, if

 it came, would be to open up the last flank, to allow Besnell, theLongriders, and the men of Nesme and Settlestone to get into thedale, which was accessible through only one narrow pass.

 The lizard-riders would get there first, Alustriel knew, and theyoutnumbered the waiting knights—and they were drow.

 *   *   *  *    *

 The easternmost position was surrendered. The barbarians, or what remained of their ranks, ran fast to the west, crossing behindthe Knights in Silver to join Berkthgar.

 After they had crossed, Besnell turned his force to the west aswell, pushing Berkthgar's force, which had swelled to includenearly every living warrior from Settlestone, ahead.

 The leader of the Knights in Silver began to think that Berkthgar's error would not be so devastating, that the retreat could proceed as planned. He found a high plateau and surveyed the area,nodding grimly as he noted that the enemy force below had rolledaround the first three positions.

 Besnell's eyes widened, and he gasped aloud as he realized theexact location of the leading edge of that dark cloud. The Riders of Nesme had missed their call! They had to get down the mountainside quickly, to hold that flank, and yet, for some reason, they had hesitated and the leading edge of the enemy force seemed beyond the fourth, and last, position.

 Now the Riders of Nesme did come, and their full-out chargedown the smoothest stone of the south face was indeed devastating,the forty horsemen trampling thrice that number of kobolds in meremoments.

 But the enemy had that many to spare, Besnell knew, and manymore beyond that. The plan had called for an organized retreat tothe west, to Keeper's Dale, even in through Mithril Hall's westerndoor if need be.

 It was a good plan, but now the flank was lost and the way tothe west was closed.

 Besnell could only watch in horror.

 Part 5

 OLD KINGS AND OLD QUEENS

 They came as an army, but not so. Eight thousand dark elvesand a larger number of humanoid slaves, a mighty and massive force, swarmed toward Mithril Hall.

 The descriptions are fitting in terms of sheer numbersand strength, and yet "army" and "force" imply something more, a senseof cohesion and collective purpose. Certainly the drow are among the finestwarriors in the Realms, trained to fight from the youngest age, alone or ingroups, and certainly the purpose seems clear when the war is racial, whenit is drow battling dwarves. Yet, though their tactics are perfect, groupsworking in unison to support each other, that cohesion among drow ranksremains superficial.

 Few, if any, dark elves of Lloth's army would give her or his life to saveanother, unless she or he was confident that the sacrifice would guarantee aplace of honor in the afterlife at the Spider Queen's side. Only a fanatic among the dark elves would take a hit, however minor, to spare another's life, and only because that fanatic thought the act in her own best interest.The drow came crying for the glory of the Spider Queen, but, in reality,they each were looking for a piece of her glory.

 Personal gain was always the dark elves' primary precept.

 That was the difference between the defenders of Mithril Hall andthose who came to conquer. That was the one hope of our side when faced with such horrendous odds, outnumbered by skilled drow warriors!

 If a single dwarf came to a battle in which his comrades were beingoverrun, he would roar in defiance and charge in headlong, however terrible the odds. Yet if we could catch a group of drow, a patrol, perhaps, in anambush, those supporting groups flanking their unfortunate comradeswould not join in unless they could be assured of victory.

 We, not they, had true collective purpose. We, not they, understoodcohesion, fought for a shared higher principle, and understood and accepted

 that any sacrifice we might make would be toward the greater good.

 There is a chamber—many chambers, actually—in Mithril Hall,where the heroes of wars and past struggles are honored. Wulfgar's hammer is there; so was the bow—the bow of an elf—that Catti-brie put intoservice once more. Though she has used the bow for years, and has addedconsiderably to its legend, Catti-brie refers to it still as "the bow ofAnariel," that long-dead elf. If the bow is put into service again by a friendof Clan Battlehammer centuries hence, it will be called "the bow of Catti-brie, passed from Anariel. "

 There is in Mithril Hall another place, the Hall of Kings, where thebusts of Clan Battlehammer's patrons, the eight kings, have been carved,gigantic and everlasting.

 The drow have no such monuments. My mother, Malice, never spokeof the previous matron mother of House Do'Urden, likely because Maliceplayed a hand in her mother's death. In the Academy, there are no plaquesof former mistresses and masters. Indeed, as I consider it now, the onlymonuments in Menzoberranzan are the statues of those punished byBaenre, of those struck by Vendes and her wicked whip, their skin turned toebony, that they might then be placed on display as testaments of disobedience on the plateau of Tier Breche outside the Academy.

 That was the difference between the defenders of Mithril Hall andthose who came to conquer. That was the one hope.

 -Drizzt Do'Urden

 Chapter 23

 POCKETS OF POWER

 Bidderdoo had never seen anything to match it. Literally, itwas raining kobolds and pieces of kobolds all about the terrified Harpell as the Gutbuster Brigade went into fullbattle lust. They had come into a small, wide chamber andfound a force of kobolds many times their own number. Before Bidderdoo could suggest a retreat (or a "tactical flanking maneuver,"as he planned to call it, because he knew the word "retreat" was not inThibbledorf Pwent's vocabulary), Pwent had led the forthright charge.Poor Bidderdoo had been sucked up in the brigade's wake, theseven frenzied dwarves blindly, happily, following Pwent's seemingly suicidal lead right into the heart of the cavern. Now it was afrenzy, a massacre the likes of which the studious Harpell, who hadlived all his life in the sheltered Ivy Mansion (and a good part ofthat as a family dog) could not believe.

 Pwent darted by him, a dead kobold impaled on his helmet spikeand flopping limply. Arms wide, the battlerager leaped into a group of kobolds and pulled as many in as possible, hugging them tightly. Thenhe began to shake, to convulse so violently that Bidderdoo wondered if some agonizing poison had found its way into the dwarf's veins.

 Not so, for this was controlled insanity. Pwent shook, and thenasty ridges of his armor took the skin from his hugged enemies,ripped and tore them. He broke away (and three kobolds fell dying)with a left hook that brought his mailed, spiked gauntlet severalinches into the forehead of the next unfortunate enemy.

 Bidderdoo came to understand that the charge was not suicidal,that the Gutbusters would win easily by overwhelming the greaternumbers with sheer fury. He also realized, suddenly, that the koboldslearned fast to avoid the furious dwarves. Six of them bypassed Pwent,giving the battlerager a respectfully wide berth. Six of them swungabout and bore down on the one enemy they could hope to defeat.

 Bidderdoo fumbled with the shattered remains of his spellbook, flipping to one page where the ink had not smeared so badly. Holding the parchment in one hand, his other hand straight out in frontof him, he began a fast chant, waggling his fingers.

 A burst of magical energy erupted from each of his fingertips,green bolts rushing out, each darting and weaving to unerringlystrike a target.

 Five of the kobolds fell dead; the sixth came on with a shriek, itslittle sword rushing for Bidderdoo's belly.

 The parchment fell from the terrified Harpell's hand. Hescreamed, thinking he was about to die, and reacted purely oninstinct, falling forward over the blade, angling his chest down sothat he buried the diminutive kobold beneath him. Hefelt a burningpain as the small creature's sword cut into his ribs, but there was nostrength behind the blow and the sword did not dig in deeply.

 Bidderdoo, so unused to combat, screamed in terror. And thepain, the pain...

 Bidderdoo's screams became a howl. He looked down and sawthe thrashing kobold, and saw more clearly the thrashing kobold'sexposed throat.

 Then he tasted warm blood and was not repulsed.

 Growling, Bidderdoo closed his eyes and held on. The kobold stopped thrashing.

 After some time, the poor Harpell noticed that the sounds ofbattle had ended about him. He gradually opened his eyes, turnedhis head slightly to look up at Thibbledorf Pwent, standing overhim and nodding his head.

 Only then did Bidderdoo realize he had killed the kobold, had

 bitten the thing's throat out.

 "Good technique," Pwent offered, and started away.

 *****

 While the Gutbuster Brigade's maneuvers were loud andstraightforward, wholly dependent on savagery, another party'swere a dance of stealth and ambush. Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, Catti-brie, Regis, and Bruenor moved silently from one tunnel to another,the drow and panther leading. Guenhwyvar was the first to detectan approaching enemy, and Drizzt quickly relayed the signals whenthe panther's ears went flat.

 The five worked in unison, setting up so that Catti-brie, with herdeadly bow, would strike first, followed by the panther's spring, thedrow's impossibly fast rush into the fray, and Bruenor's typically dwarven roaring charge. Regis always found a way to get into the fight, usually moving in behind to slam a drow backside or a kobold's head withhis mace when one of his friends became too closely pressed.

 This time, though, Regis figured to stay out of the battle altogether. The group was in a wide, high corridor when Guenhwyvar,nearing a bend, fell into a crouch, ears flat. Drizzt slipped into the shadows of an alcove, as did Regis, while Bruenor stepped defensively in front of his archer daughter, so that Catti-brie could use thehorns of his helmet to line up her shot.

 Around the corner came the enemy, a group of minotaurs and drow, five of each, running swiftly in the general direction of MithrilHall

 Catti-brie wisely went for the drow. There came a flash of silver, and onefell dead.

 Guenhwyvar came out hard and fast, burying another dark elf,clawing and biting and rolling right away to bear down on a third drow.

 A second flash came, and another elf fell dead.

 But the minotaurs came on hard, and Catti-brie would get no third shot. She went for her sword as Bruenor roared and rushedout to meet the closest monster.

 The minotaur lowered its bull-like head; Bruenor dropped hisnotched battle-axe right behind him over his head, holding the handle tightly in both hands.

 In came the minotaur, and over came the axe. The crack sounded

 like the snapping of a gigantic tree.

 Bruenor didn't know what hit him. Suddenly he was flyingbackward, bowled over by six hundred pounds of minotaur.

 * * * * *

 Drizzt came out spinning and darting. He hit the first minotaurfrom the side, a scimitar cutting deep into the back of the creature's thigh, stopping its charge. The ranger spun away and went down to one knee, jabbing straight ahead with Twinkle, hooking thetip ofthe blue-glowing scimitar over the next monster's kneecap.

 The minotaur howled and half-fell, half-dove right for Drizzt,but the drow's feet were already under him, already moving, and the brute slammed hard into the stone.

 Drizzt turned back for Catti-brie and Bruenor and the tworemaining brutes bearing down on his friends. With incrediblespeed, he caught up to them almost immediately and his scimitarswent to work on one, again going for the legs, stopping the charge.

 But the last minotaur caught up to Catti-brie. Its huge club,made of hardened mushroom stalk, came flying about, and Catti-brie ducked fast, whipping her sword above her head.

 Khazid'hea sliced right through the club, and as the minotaurstared at the remaining piece dumbfoundedly, Catti-brie countered with a slashing backhand.

 The minotaur looked at her curiously. She could not believe shehad missed.

 * * * * *

 Regis watched from the shadows, knowing he was overmatchedby any enemy in this fight. He tried to gauge his companions,though, wanting to be ready if needed. Mostly he watched Drizzt,mesmerized by the sheer speed of the drow's charges and dodges.Drizzt had always been quick afoot, but this display was simplyamazing, the ranger's feet moving so swiftly that Regis could hardlydistinguish them. More than once, Regis tried to anticipate Drizzt'spath, only to find himself looking where the drow was not.

 For Drizzt had cut to the side, or reversed direction altogether,more quickly than the halfling would have believed possible.

 Regis finally just shook his head and filed his questions awayfor another time, reminding himself that there were other, moreimportant considerations. He glanced about and noticed the last ofthe enemy drow slipping to the side, out of the way of the panther.

 *****

 The last drow wanted no part of Guenhwyvar, and was gladindeed that the woman with the killing bow was engaged in closecombat. Two of his dark elf companions lay dead from arrows, a third squirmed about on the floor, half her face torn away by thepanther's claws, and all five minotaurs were down or engaged. Thefourth drow had run off, back around the bend, but that wickedpanther was only a couple of strides behind, and the hiding dark elf knew his companion would be down in a matter of moments.

 Still, the drow hardly cared, for he saw Drizzt Do'Urden, the renegade, the most hated. The ranger was fully engaged and vulnerable,working furiously to finish the three minotaurs he had wounded. If thisdrow could seize the opportunity and get Drizzt, then his place of glory, and his house's glory, would be sealed. Even if he was killed by Drizzt'sfriends, he would have a seat of honor beside Lloth, the Spider Queen.

 He loaded his most potent dart, a bolt enchanted with runes of fire and lightning, onto his heavy, two-handed crossbow, an unusualweapon indeed for dark elves, and brought the sights in line.

 Something hit the crossbow hard from the side. The drowpulled the trigger instinctively, but the bolt, knocked loose, wentnowhere but down, exploding at his feet. The jolt sent him flying; thepuffof flames singed his hair and blinded him momentarily.

 He rolled over on the floor and managed to get out of his burningpiwafwi. Dazed, he noticed a small mace lying on the floor, then sawa small, plump hand reaching down to pick it up. The drowtried to react as the bare feet, hairy on top—something the Under-dark drow had never seen before—steadily approached.

 Then all went dark.

 * * * * *

 Catti-brie cried out and leaped back, but the minotaur did notcharge. Rather, the brute stood perfectly still, eyeing her curiously.

 "I didn't miss," Catti-brie said, as if her denial of what seemedobvious would change her predicament. To her surprise, she found she was right.

 The minotaur's left leg, severed cleanly by Khazid'hea's passing, caved in under it, and the brute fell sidelong to the floor, itslifeblood pouring out unchecked.

 Catti-brie looked to the side to see Bruenor, grumbling andgroaning, crawling out from under the minotaur he had killed. Thedwarf hopped to his feet, shook his head briskly to clear away thestars, then stared at his axe, hands on hips, head shaking in dismay. The mighty weapon was embedded nearly a foot deep in the mino taur's thick skull.

 "How in the Nine Hells am I going to got the damned thingout?" Bruenor asked, looking at his daughter.

 Drizzt was done, as was Regis, and Guenhwyvar came backaround the corner, dragging the last of the dark elves by the scruff of his broken neck.

 "Another win for our side," Regis remarked as the friendsregrouped.

 Drizzt nodded his agreement but seemed not so pleased. It wasa small thing they were doing, he knew, barely scratching at the surface of the force that had come to Mithril Hall.And despite thequickness of this latest encounter, and of the three before it, thefriends had been, ultimately, lucky. What would have happened hadanother group of drow or minotaurs, or even kobolds, come aboutthe corner while the fight was raging?

 They had won quickly and cleanly, but their margin of victory wasa finer line and a more tentative thing than the rout would indicate.

 "Ye're not so pleased," Catti-brie said quietly to the ranger asthey started off once more.

 "In two hours we have killed a dozen drow, a handful of minotaurs and a score of kobold fodder," Drizzt replied.

 "With thousands more to go," the woman added, understanding Drizzt's dismay.

 Drizzt said nothing. His only hope, Mithril Hall's only hope,was that they and other groups like them would kill enoughdrow to take the heart from their enemy. Dark elves were achaotic and supremely disloyal bunch, and only if the defenders of Mithril Hall could defeat the drow army's will for the war did

 they have a chance.

 Guenhwyvar's ears went flat again, and the panther slippedsilently into the darkness. The friends, feeling suddenly weary of it all, moved into position and were relieved indeed when the newestgroup rambled into sight. No drow this time, no kobolds or minotaurs. A column of dwarves, more than a score, hailed them andapproached. This group, too, had seen battle since the fight inTunult's Cavern. Many showed fresh wounds, and every dwarven weapon was stained with enemy blood.

 "How fare we?" Bruenor asked, stepping to the front.

 The leader of the dwarven column winced, and Bruenor had hisanswer. "They're fightin' in the Undercity, me king," said the dwarf."How they got into the place, we're not for knowin'! And fightin'too, in the upper levels, by all reports. The eastern door's beenbreached. "

 Bruenor's shoulders visibly slumped.

 "But we're holdin' at Garumn's Gorge!" the dwarf said withmore determination.

 "Where're ye from and where're ye going?" Bruenor wanted toknow.

 "From the last guard room," the dwarf explained. "Come out ina short circuit to find yerself, me king. Tunnels're thick with drowscum, and glad we be to see ye standing!" He pointed behind Bruenor, then jabbed his finger to the left. "We're not so far, and the wa y's still clear to the last guard room... "

 "But it won't be for long," another dwarf piped in glumly.

 "And clear all the way to the Undercity from there," the leaderfinished.

 Drizzt pulled Bruenor to the side and began a whispered conversation. Catti-brie and Regis waited patiently, as did the dwarves.

 "...keep searching," they heard Drizzt say.

 "Me place is with me people!" Bruenor roughly replied. "Andyer own is with me!"

 Drizzt cut him short with a long stream of words. Catti-brie andthe others heard snatches such as "hunting the head" and "roundabout route," and they knew Drizzt was trying to convince Bruenorto let him continue his hunt through the outer, lower tunnels.

 Catti-brie decided then and there that if Drizzt and Guenhwyvar were to go on, she, with her Cat's Eye circlet, which Alustriel

 had given her to allow her to see in the dark, would go with him.Regis, feeling unusually brave and useful, silently came to the sameconclusion.

 Still, the two were surprised when Drizzt and Bruenor walkedback to the group.

 "Get ye to the last guard room, and all the way to the Undercity if need be," Bruenor commanded the column leader.

 The dwarf's jaw dropped with amazement. "But, me king," hesputtered.

 "Get ye!" Bruenor growled.

 "And leave yerself alone out here?" the stunned dwarf asked.

 Bruenor's smile was wide and wicked as he looked from thedwarf to Drizzt, to Catti-brie, to Regis, and to Guenhwyvar, thenfinally, back to the dwarf.

 "Alone?" Bruenor replied, and the other dwarf knowing theprowess of his king's companions, conceded the point.

 "Get ye back and win," Bruenor said to him. "Me and mefriends got some huntin' to do. "

 The two groups split apart once more, both grimly determined,but neither overly optimistic.

 Drizzt whispered something to the panther, and Guenhwyvartook up the lead as before. To this point, the companions had been lying in wait for every enemy group that came their way, but now,with the grim news from the Undercity and the eastern door, Drizztchanged that tactic. If they could not avoid the small groups of drowand other monsters, then they would fight, but otherwise, their path now was more direct. Drizzt wanted to find the priestesses (and heknew it had to be priestesses) who had led this march. The dwarves' only chance was to decapitate the enemy force.

 And so the companions were now, as Drizzt had quietly put itto Bruenor, "hunting the head. "

 Regis, last in line, shook his head and looked more than once backthe way the dwarven column had marched. "How do I always getmyself into this?" the halfling whispered. Then, looking at the backs ofhis hardy, sometimes reckless friends, he knew he had his answer.

 Catti-brie heard the halfling's resigned sigh, understood itssource, and managed to hide her smile.

 Chapter 24

 FIERY FURY

 Alustriel watched from her high perch as the southernface of Fourthpeak flickered with light that seemed tobe blinking like the stars above. The exchange ofenchanted pellets from the defenders and countering dark magic from the invaders was furious. As she brought her chariot around the southwestern cliffs, the Lady of Silverymoon grewterribly afraid, for the defenders had been pushed into a U formation, surrounded on all sides by goblins, kobolds, and fierce drowwarriors.

 Still, the forces of the four armies fought well, practically back to back, and their line was strong. No great number could strike atthem from the gap at the top of the U, the logical weak spot, becauseof the almost sheer cliffs, and the defenders were tightly packedenough along the entire line to hold against any concentratedassaults.

 Even as Alustriel fostered that thought, her hopes were put tothe test. A group of goblins, led by huge bugbears, seven-foot, hairyversions of goblins, formed into a tight diamond and spearheadedinto the defenders' eastern flank.

 The line wavered; Alustriel almost revealed herself with a flurryof explosive magic.

 But amidst the chaos and the press rose one sword above allothers, one song above all others.

 Berkthgar the Bold, his wild hair flying, sang to Tempus with allhis heart, and Bankenfuere hummed as it swept through the air.Berkthgar ignored the lesser goblins and charged straight for thebugbears, and each mighty swipe cut one of them down The loaderof Settlestone took a vicious hit, and another, but no hint of paincrossed his stern visage or slowed his determined march.

 Those bugbears who escaped the first furious moments of thehuge man's assault fled from him thereafter, and with their leadersso terrified, the goblins quickly lost heart for the press and the diamond disintegrated into a fleeing mob.

 Many would be the songs to celebrate Berkthgar, Alustrielknew, but only if the defenders won. If the dark elves succeeded in their conquest, then all such heroics would be lost to the ages, all thesongs would be buried beneath a black veil of oppression. Thatcould not happen, the Lady of Silverymoon decided. Even if MithrilHall were to fall this night, or the next, the war would not be lost.All of Silverymoon would mobilize against the drow, and shewould go to Sundabar, in the east, to Citadel Adbar, stronghold of King Harbromme and his dwarves, and all the way to Waterdeep,on the Sword Coast, to muster the necessary forces to push the drowback to Menzoberranzan!

 This war was not lost, she reminded herself, and she lookeddown at the determined defenders, holding against the swarm,fighting and dying.

 Then came the tragedy she had expected and feared all along:the magical barrage, bursts of fireballs and lightning, lines of consuming magical energy and spinning bolts of destruction.

 The assault focused on the southwestern corner of the U, blewapart the ranks of the Riders of Nesme, consuming horse and manalike. Many humanoid slaves fell as well, mere fodder and of noconcern to the wicked drow wizards.

 Tears streamed down Alustriel's face as she watched that catastrophe, as she heard the agonized cries of man and beast and sawthat corner of the mountain become charred under the sheer powerof the barrage. She berated herself for not foreseeing this war, for

 underestimating the intensity of the drow march, for not having herarmy fully entrenched, warriors, wizards and priests alike, in thedefense of Mithril Hall.

 The massacre went on for many seconds, seeming like hours tothe horrified defenders. It went on and on, the explosions and thecries.

 Alustriel found her heart again and looked for the source, andwhen she saw it, she came to realize that the dark elf wizards, intheir ignorance of the surface world, had erred.

 They were concentrated within a copse of thick trees, undercover and hurling out their deadly volley of spells.

 Alustriel's features brightened into a wicked smile, a smile ofvengeance, and she cut her chariot across at a sharp angle, swooping down the mountainside from on high, flying like an arrow forthe heart of her enemies.

 The drow had erred; they were in the trees.

 As she crossed the northern edge of the battlefield, Alustriel cried out a command, and her chariot, and the team of enchantedhorses that pulled it, ignited into bright flames.

 Below her she heard the cries of fear, from friend and enemy alike, and she heard the trumpets from the Knights in Silver, whorecognized the chariot and understood that their leader had come.

 Down she streaked, a tremendous fireball leading the way,exploding in the heart of the copse. Alustriel sped right to the trees' edge, then banked sharply and rushed along the thick line, the flamesof her chariot igniting branches wherever she passed.

 The drow wizards had erred!

 She knew the dark elves had likely set up wards against countering magic—perhaps even over themselves—that would defeat eventhe most intense fires, but they did not understand the flammable nature of trees. Even if the fire did not consume them, the flameswould blind them and effectively put them out of the fighting.

 And the smoke! The thick copse was damp from previous rains and frost, and billowing black clouds thickened the air. Even worsefor the drow, the wizards countered as they had always counteredfire, with spells creating water. So great was their response, that theflames would have been quenched, except that Alustriel did notrelent, continued to rush about the copse, even cut into the copsewherever she found a break. No water, not the ocean itself, could

 extinguish the fires of her enchanted chariot. As she continued tofuel the flames, the drenching spells by the wizards added steam tothe smoke, thickened the air so that the dark elves could not see at all and could not breathe.

 Alustriel trusted in her horses, extensions of her will, to understand her intent and keep the chariot on course, and she watched, her spells ready, for she knew the enemy could not remain withinthe copse. As she expected, a drow floated up through the trees, rising above the inferno, levitating into the air and trying to orienthimself to the scene beyond the copse.

 Alustriel's lightning bolt hit him in the bark of the head andsent him spinning over and over, and he hung, upside down anddead, until his own spell expired, dropping him back into the trees.

 Even as she killed that wizard, though, a ball of flame puffedin the air right before the chariot, and the speeding thing, andAlustriel with it, plunged right through. The Ladyof Silverymoon was protected from the flames of her own spell, but not so from the fireball, and she cried out and came through pained, her face bright from burn.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Higher up the mountainside, Besnell and his soldiers witnessed the attack against Alustriel. The elf steeled his golden eyes; his mencried out in outrage. If their earlier exploits had been furious, theywere purely savage now, and Berkthgar's men, fighting besidethem, needed no prodding.

 Goblins and kobolds, bugbears and orcs, even huge minotaursand skilled drow, died by the score in the next moments of battle.

 It hardly seemed to matter. Whenever one died, two took itsplace, and though the knights and the barbarians could have cutthrough the enemy lines, there was nowhere for them to go.

 Farther to the west, his own Longriders similarly pressed, Reg-weld understood their only hope. He leaped Puddlejumper to aplace where there were no enemies and cast a spell to send a message to Besnell.

 Tothe west!the wizard implored the knight leader.

 Then Regweld took up the new lead and turned his men andthe barbarians closest to them westward, toward Keeper's Dale, as

 the original plan had demanded. The drow wizards had beensilenced, momentarily at least, and now was the only chance Reg-weld would have.

 A lightning bolt split the darkening air. A fireball followed, andRegweld followed that, leaping Puddlejumper over the ranks of his enemies and loosing a barrage of magical missiles below him as heflew.

 Confusion hit the enemy ranks, enough so that the Longriders,men who had fought beside the Harpells for all their lives andunderstood Regweld's tactics, were able to slice through, opening a gap.

 Beside them came many of the Settlestone warriors and the few remaining horsemen from Nesme. Behind them came the rest of thebarbarian force and the Knights in Silver, mighty Berkthgar bringing up the rear, almost single-handedly keeping the pursuing monsters at bay.

 The defenders punched through quickly, but found theirmomentum halted as another force, mostly drow, cut across in front, forming thick ranks.

 Regweld continued his magical barrage, charged ahead withPuddlejumper, expecting to die.

 And so he would have, except that Alustriel, forced away from thecopse by the increasingly effective counters of the drow wizards,rushed back up the mountainside, right along the dark elf line, lowenough so that the drow who did not flee were trampled and burned by her fiery passing.

 Besnell and his men galloped to the front of the fleeing force,cried out to Alustriel and for the good of all goodly folk, andplunged into the confusion of the drow ranks, right into the flamingchariot's charred wake.

 Many more men died in those few moments of hellish fighting,many men and many drow, but the defenders broke free to the west,ran and rode on, and found the path into Keeper's Dale before theenemy could block it.

 Above the battle once more, Alustriel slumped with exhaustion.She had not launched so concentrated a barrage of magic in many,many years, and had not engaged so closely in any conflict since the days before she had come to rule Silverymoon. Now she was tiredand wounded, burned and singed, and she had taken several hits by

 sword and by quarrel as she had rushed along the drow ranks. Sheknew the disapproval she would find when she returned to Silverymoon, knew that her advisors, and the city's council, and colleaguesfrom other cities, would think her rash, even stupid. Mithril Hallwas a minor kingdom not worth her life, her detractors would say.To take such risks against so deadly an enemy was foolish.

 So they would say, but Alustriel knew better, knew that the freedoms and rights that applied to Silverymoon were not there simplybecause of her city's size and strength. They applied to all, to Silverymoon, to Waterdeep, and to the smallest of kingdoms that sodesired them, because otherwise the values they promoted weremeaningless and selfish.

 Now she was wounded, had nearly been killed, and she calledoff her chariot's flames as she rose high into the sky. To show herselfso openly would invite a continuing magical attack that wouldlikely destroy her. She was sorely wounded, she knew, but Alustrielwas smiling. Even if she died this night, the Lady of Silverymoonwould die smiling, because she was following her heart. She wasfighting for something bigger than her life, for values that were eternal and ultimately right.

 She watched with satisfaction as the force, led by Besnell andher own knights, broke free and sped for Keeper's Dale, then sheclimbed higher into the cold sky, angling for the west.

 The enemy would pursue, and more enemies were coming fast around the north, and the battle had only just begun.

 *   *   *   *   *

 The Undercity, where two thousand dwarves often labored hardat their most beloved profession, had never seen such bustle andtumult as this day. Not even when the shadow dragon, Shimmer-gloom, and its host of evil gray dwarves had invaded, when Bruenor's grandfather had been king, had the Undercity been engulfedin such a battle.

 Goblins and minotaurs, kobolds and wicked monsters that thedwarves could not name flooded in from the lower tunnels andthrough the floor itself, areas that had been breached by the magicof the illithids. And the drow, scores of dark elves, struggled andbattled along every step and across the wide floor, their dance a

 macabre mix of swirling shadows in the glow of the many low-burning furnaces.

 Still, the main tunnels to the lower levels had not been breached,and the greatest concentration of enemies, particularly the drow force, remained outside Mithril Hall proper. Now the dark elveswho had gained the Undercity meant to open that way, to link upwith the forces of Uthegental and Matron Baenre.

 And the dwarves meant to stop them, knowing that if that joining came to pass, then Mithril Hall would be lost.

 Lightning flashed, green and red and sizzling black bolts from below, from the drow, and it was answered from above by Harkleand Bella don DelRoy.

 The lowest levels began to grow darker as the drow workedtheir magic to gain a favorable battlefield.

 The fall of light pellets upon the floor sounded like a gentle rainas Stumpet Rakingclaw and her host of dwarven priests counteredthe magic, brightening the area, loading spell after spell, stealingevery shadow from every corner. Dwarves could fight in the dark,but they could fight in the light as well, and the drow and othercreatures from the Underdark were not so fond of brightness.

 One group of twenty dwarves formed a tight formation on thewide floor and rolled over a band of fleeing goblins. Their boots sounded like a heavy, rolling wheel, a general din, mowing overwhatever monster dared to stay in their path.

 A handful of dark elves fired stinging crossbow quarrels, butthe dwarves shook off the hits—and, since their blood ran thickwith potions to counter any poisons, they shook off the infamousdrow sleeping drug as well.

 Seeing that their attack was ineffective, the drow scattered, andthe dwarven wedge rolled toward the next obstacle, two strange-looking creatures that the bearded folk did not know, two ugly creatures with slimy heads that waved tentacles where the mouthsshould have been, and with milky white eyes that showed nopupils.

 The dwarven wedge seemed unstoppable, but when the illithidsturned their way and loosed their devastating mental barrage, thewedge wobbled and fell apart, stunned dwarves staggering aimlessly.

 "Oh, there they are!" Harkle squealed from the third tier of theUndercity, more than sixty feet from the floor.

 Bella don DelRoy's face crinkled with disgust as she looked atmind flayers for the first time. She and Harkle had expected thecreatures; Drizzt had told them about Matron Baenre's "pet."Despite her disgust, Bella, like all Harpells, was more curious thanafraid. The illithids had been expected—she just hadn't expectedthem to be so damned ugly!

 "Are you sure of this?" the diminutive woman asked Harkle,who had devised the strategy for fighting the squishy-headedthings. Her good eye revealed her true hopes, though, for while shetalked to Harkle, it remained fixated on the ugly illithids.

 "Would I have gone to all the trouble of learning to cast from thedifferent perspective?" Harkle answered, seeming wounded by herdoubts.

 "Of course," Bella replied. "Well, those dwarves do need ourhelp. "

 "Indeed. "

 A quick chant by the daughter of DelRoy brought a shimmeringblue, door-shaped field right before the two wizards.

 "After you," Bella said politely.

 "Oh, rank before beauty," Harkle answered, waving his handtoward the door, indicating that Bella should load.

 "No time for wasting!" came a clear voice behind them, and surprisingly strong hands pressed against both Bella and Harkle's hips,heaving them both for the door. They went through together, andFret, the tidy dwarf, pushed in right behind them.

 The second door appeared on the floor, between the illithidsand their stunned dwarven prey, and out popped the three dimensional travelers. Fret skidded to the side, trying to round up the vulnerable dwarves, while Harkle and Bella don DelRoy musteredtheir nerve and faced the octopus-headed creatures.

 "I understand your anger," Harkle began, and he and his companion shuddered as a wave of mental energy rolled across theirchests and shoulders and heads, leaving a wake of tingles.

 "If I were as ugly as you..."Harkle continued, and a secondwave came through.

 "... I would be mean, too!" Harkle finished, and a third blast ofenergy came forth, followed closely by the illithids. Bella screamedand Harkle nearly fainted as the monstrous things pushed in close,tentacles latching onto cheeks and chins. One went straight up

 Harkle's nose, in search of brain matter to devour.

 "You are sure?" Bella cried out.

 But Harkle, deep in the throes of his latest spell, didn't hear her. He didn't struggle against the illithid, for he didn't want the thing tojostle him too severely. It was hard enough to concentrate with wriggling tentacles burrowing under the skin of his face!

 Those tentacles swelled now, extracting their prize.

 An unmistakably sour look crossed the normally expressionlessfeatures of both the creatures.

 Harkle's hands came up slowly, palms down, his thumbs touching and his other fingers spread wide. A flash of fire erupted fromhis hands, searing the confused illithid, burning its robes. It tried topull away, and Harkle's facial skin bulged weirdly as the tentaclesbegan to slide free.

 Harkle was already moving with his next spell. He reached intohis robes and extracted a dart, a leaf that had been mushed to powder, and a stringy, slimy thing, a snake's intestine, and squashedthem all together as he completed the chant.

 From that hand came forth a small bolt, shooting across the twofeet to stick into the still-burning illithid's belly.

 The creature gurgled something indecipherable and finally fellaway, stumbling, grasping at its newest wound, for while the firesstill nipped at it in places, this newest attack hurt more.

 The enchanted bolt pumped acid into its victim.

 Down went the illithid, still clutching at the leaking bolt. It hadunderestimated its enemy, and it telepathically sent that very mesage to its immediate companion, who already understood theirerror, and to Methil, deep in the caverns beside Matron Baenre.

 Bella couldn't concentrate. Though her spell of polymorph had been perfect, her brain safely tucked away where the illithid couldnot find it, she simply couldn't concentrate with the squiggly tentacles probing around her skull. She berated herself, told herself thatthe daughter of DelRoy should be more in control.

 She heard a rumbling sound, a cart rolling near, and opened hereyes to see Fret push the cart right up behind the illithid, a host of drow in pursuit. Holding his nerve, the tidy dwarf leaped atop thecart and drew out a tiny silver hammer.

 "Let her go!" Fret cried, bringing the nasty little weapon to bear.To the dwarf's surprise, and disgust, his hammer sank into the

 engaged illithid's bulbous head and ichor spewed forth, sprayingthe dwarf and staining his white robes.

 Fret knew the drow were bearing down on him; he had resolvedto take one attack on the illithid, then turn in defense against thedark elves. But all plans flew away in the face of that gory mess, theone thing that could bring the tidy dwarf into full battle rage.

 No woodpecker every hit a log as rapidly. Fret's hammerworked so as to seem a blur, and each hit sent more of the illithid'sbrain matter spraying, which only heightened the tidy dwarf'sfrenzy.

 Still, that would have been the end of Fret, of all of them, hadnot Harkle quickly enacted his next spell. He focused on the area infront of the charging drow, threw a bit of lard into the air, andcalledout his next dweomer.

 The floor became slick with grease, and the charge came to astumbling, tumbling end.

 Its head smashed to dripping pulp, the illithid slumped beforeBella, the still-clinging tentacles bringing her low as well. Shegrabbed frantically at those tentacles and yanked them free, thenstood straight and shuddered with pure revulsion.

 "I told you that was the way to fight mind flayers!" Harkle saidhappily, for it had been his plan every step of the way.

 "Shut up," Bella said to him, her stomach churning. She looked all about, seeing enemies closing in from many directions. "And get us out of here!" she said.

 Harkle looked at her, confused and a bit wounded by her disdain. The plan had worked, after all!

 A moment later, Harkle, too, became more than a little frightened, as he came to realize that he had forgotten that last little detail,and had no spells left that would transport them back to the highertiers.

 "Ummm," he stammered, trying to find the words to bestexplain their dilemma.

 Relieved he was, and Bella, too, when the dwarven wedgereformed about them, Fret joining the ranks.

 "We'll get ye back up," the leader of the grateful dwarvespromised, and on they rolled, once more burying everything in theirpath.

 Even more destructive now was their march, for every so often

 a blast of lightning or a line of searing fire shot out from their ranksas Harkle and Bella joined in the fun.

 Still, Bella remained uncomfortable and wanted this all to endso that she could return to her normal physiology. Harkle had studied illithids intently, and knew as much about them as perhaps anywizard in all the Realms. Their mentally debilitating blasts wereconical, he had assured her, and so, if he and she could get close,only the top half of their bodies would be affected.

 Thus they had enacted the physical transformation enchantment, wherein Harkle and Bella appeared the same, yet had transfigured two areas of their makeup, their brains and their buttocks.

 Harkle smiled at his cleverness as the wedge rolled on. Such a transformation had been a delicate thing, requiring many hours ofstudy and preparation. But it had been worth the trouble, every second, the Harpell believed, recalling the sour looks on the uglyillithid faces!

 * * * * *

 The rumbles from the collapse of the bridges, and of all theantechambers near Garumn's Gorge, were felt in the lowest tunnelsof Mithril Hall, even beyond, in the upper passages of the wildUnderdark itself. How much work Bruenor's people would have ifever they tried to open the eastern door again!

 But the drow advance had been stopped, and was well worththe price. For now General Dagna and his force of defenders werefree to go.

 But where? the tough, battle-hardened dwarf wondered.Reports came to him that the Undercity was under full attack, buthe also realized that the western door, near Keeper's Dale, was vulnerable, with only a few hundred dwarves guarding the manywinding tunnels and with no provisions for such catastrophic measures as had been taken here in the east. The tunnels in the west could not be completely dropped; there had not been time to rigthem so.

 Dagna looked around at his thousand troops, many of themwounded, but all of them eager for more battle, eager to defendtheir sacred homeland.

 "The Undercity," the general announced a moment later. If the

 western door was breached, the invaders would have to find theirway through, no easy task considering the myriad choices theywould face. The fighting had already come to the Undercity, so that was where Dagna belonged.

 Normally it would have taken many minutes, a half hour ormore, for the dwarves to get down to the fighting, even if they wentthe whole way at a full charge. But this, too, had been foreseen, soDagna led his charges to the appointed spot, new doors that hadbeen cut into the walls connecting to chimneys running up from thegreat furnaces. As soon as those doors were opened, Dagna and hissoldiers heard the battle, so they went without delay, one after another, onto the heavy ropes that had been set in place.

 Down they slid, fearlessly, singing songs to Clanggedon. Downthey went, hitting the floor at a full run, rushing out of the warmfurnaces and right into the fray, streaming endlessly, it seemed, aswere the drow coming in from the lower tunnels.

 The fighting in the Undercity grew ever furious.

 Chapter 25

 KEEPER'S DALE

 Berg'inyon's force swept into Keeper's Dale, the sticky-footed lizards making trails where none could befound. They came down the northern wall like a sheetof water, into the misty valley, ominous shadows slipping past tall pillars of stone.

 Though it was warmer here than on the open northern face,the drow were uncomfortable. There were no formations like thisin the Underdark, no misty valleys, except those filled with thetoxic fumes of unseen volcanoes. Scouting reports had been complete, though, and had specifically outlined this very spot, thedoorstep of Mithril Hall's western door, as safe for passage. Thus,the Baenre lizard riders went into the valley without question,fearing their own volatile matron mother more than any possibletoxic fumes.

 As they entered the vale, they heard the fighting on the southern side of the mountain. Berg'inyon nodded when he took themoment to notice that the battle was coming closer—all was going as planned. The enemy was in retreat, no doubt, beingherded like stupid rothe into the valley, where the slaughter

 would begin in full.

 The moving shadows that were Berg'inyon's force slippedquietly through the mist, past the stone sentinels, trying to get alay of the valley, trying to find the optimum ambush areas.

 Above the mist, a line of fire broke the general darkness of thenight sky, streaking fast and angling into the vale. Berg'inyonwatched it, as did so many, not knowing what it might be.

 As she crossed above the force, Alustriel loosed the last barrage of her magic, a blast of lightning, a rain of greenish pulses ofsearing energy, and a shower of explosive fireballs that liquified stone.

 The alert dark elves responded before the chariot crossed overthe northern lip of the vale, hit back with enchanted crossbowquarrels and similar spells of destruction.

 The flames of the chariot flared wider, caught in the midst of afireball, and the whole of the cart jerked violently to the side as aline of lightning blasted against its base.

 Alustriel's magic had killed more than a few, and taken themounts out from under many others, but the real purpose in the wizard's passing had been the part of decoy, for every drow eyewas turned heavenward when the second battalion of the Knightsin Silver joined the fray, charging through Keeper's Dale, horseshoes clacking deafeningly on the hard stone.

 Lances lowered, the knights barreled through the initial ranksof drow, running them down with their larger mounts.

 But these were the Baenre lizard riders, the most elite force inall of Menzoberranzan, a complement of warriors and wizardsthat did not know fear.

 Silent commands went out from Berg'inyon, passed fromwaggling fingers to waggling fingers. Even after the surprise barrage from the sky and the sudden charge of the force that thedrow did not know were in Keeper's Dale, the dark elf ranks outnumbered the Knights in Silver by more than three to one. Hadthose odds been one-to-one, the Knights in Silver still would havehad no chance.

 The tide turned quickly, with the knights, those who were nottaken down, inevitably falling back and regrouping into tight formations. Only the mist and the unfamiliar terrain prevented the slaughter from being wholesale; only the fact that the overwhelming drow

 force could not find all the targets allowed the valiant knights tocontinue to resist.

 Near the rear of the dark elf ranks, Berg'inyon heard the commotion as one unfortunate human got separated and confused,galloping his mount unintentionally toward the north, away fromhis comrades.

 The Baenre son signaled for his personal guards to followhim, but to stay behind, and took up the chase, his great lizardslinking and angling to intercept. He saw the shadowy figure—and what a magnificent thing Berg'inyon thought the rider to be,so high and tall on his powerful steed.

 That image did not deter the weapon master of Menzoberranzan's first house. He came around a pillar of stone, just to the sideof the knight, and called out to the man.

 The great horse skidded and stopped, the knight wheeling itabout to face Berg'inyon. He said something Berg'inyon could notunderstand, some proclamation of defiance, no doubt, then lowered his long lance and kicked his horse into a charge.

 Berg'inyon leveled his own mottled lance and drove his heelsinto the lizard's flanks, prodding the beast on. He couldn't matchthe speed of the knight's horse, but the horse couldn't match thelizard's agility. As the opponents neared, Berg'inyon swervedaside, brought his lizard right up the side of a thick stone pillar.

 The knight, surprised by the quickness of the evasion,couldn't bring his lance out fast enough for an effective strike, but as the two passed, Berg'inyon managed to prod the running horsein the flank. It wasn't a severe hit, barely a scratch, but this was noordinary lance. The ten-foot pole that Berg'inyon carried was adevilish death lance, among the most cunning and wicked ofdrow weapons. As the lance tip connected on the horseflesh, cutting through the metal armor the beast wore as though it weremere cloth, dark, writhing tentacles of black light crawled downits length.

 The horse whinnied pitifully, kicked and jumped and came toa skidding stop. Somehow the knight managed to hold his seat.

 "Run on!" he cried to his shivering mount, not understanding. "Run on!"

 The knight suddenly felt as though the horse was somehowless substantial beneath him, felt the beast's ribs against his

  

 calves.

 The horse threw its head back and whinnied again, anunearthly, undead cry, and the knight blanched when he lookedinto the thing's eyes, orbs that burned red with some evil enchantment.

 The death lance had stolen the creature's life-force, hadturned the proud, strong stallion into a gaunt, skeletal thing, anundead, evil thing. Thinking quickly, the knight dropped hislance, drew his huge sword, and sheared off the monster's headwith a single swipe. He rolled aside as the horse collapsedbeneath him, and came to his feet, hopping around in confusion.

 Dark shapes encircled him; he heard the hiss of nearbylizards, the sucking sounds as sticky feet came free of stone.

 Berg'inyon Baenre approached slowly. He, too, lowered hislance. A flick of his wrist freed him from his binding saddle, andhe slid off his mount, determined to test one of these surface men in single combat, determined to show those drow nearby the skillof their leader.

 Out came the weapon master's twin swords, sharp andenchanted, among the very finest of drow weapons.

 The knight, nearly a foot taller than this adversary, but knowing the reputation of dark elves, was rightfully afraid. He swallowed that fear, though, and met Berg'inyon head-on, swordagainst sword.

 The knight was good, had trained hard for all of his adult life,but if he trained for all of his remaining years as well, they wouldnot total the decades the longer-living Berg'inyon had spent with the sword.

 The knight was good. He lived for almost five minutes.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Alustriel felt the chill, moist air of a low cloud brush her face, and it brought her back to consciousness. She moved quickly, trying to right the chariot, and felt the bite of pain all along her side.

 She had been hit by spell and by weapon, and her burned andtorn robes were wet with her own blood.

 What would the world think if she, the Lady of Silverymoon,died here? she wondered. To her haughty colleagues, this was a

 minor war, a battle that had no real bearing on the events of theworld, a battle, in their eyes, that Alustriel of Silverymoon shouldhave avoided.

 Alustriel brushed her long, silvery hair—hair that was alsomatted with blood—back from her beautiful face. Anger welledwithin her as she thought of the arguments she had fought overKing Bruenor's request for aid. Not a single advisor or councilorin Silverymoon, with the exception of Fret, wanted to answer thatcall, and Alustriel had to wage a long, tiresome battle of words toget even the two hundred Knights in Silver released to MithrilHall.

 What was happening to her own city? the lady wonderednow, floating high above the disaster of Fourthpeak. Silverymoonhad earned a reputation as the most generous of places, as adefender of the oppressed, champion of goodness. The knightshad gone off to war eagerly, but they weren't the problem, andhad never been.

 The problem, the wounded Alustriel came to realize, was thecomfortably entrenched bureaucratic class, the political leaderswho had become too secure in the quality of their own lives. Thatseemed crystal clear to Alustriel now, wounded and fighting hardto control her enchanted chariot in the cold night sky above thebattle.

 She knew the heart of Bruenor and his people; she knew thegoodness of Drizzt, and the value of the hardy men of Settlestone. They were worth defending, Alustriel believed. Even if all of Silverymoon were consumed in the war, these people were worthdefending, because, in the end, in the annals future historianswould pen, that would be the measure of Silverymoon; that generosity would be the greatness of the place, would be what set Silverymoon apart from so many other petty kingdoms.

 But what was happening to her city? Alustriel wondered, andshe came to understand the cancer that was growing amidst herown ranks. She would go back to Silverymoon and purge that disease, she determined, but not now.

 Now she needed rest. She had done her part, to the best of herabilities, and, perhaps at the price of her own life, she realized asanother pain shot through her wounded side.

 Her colleagues would lament her death, would call it a waste,

 considering the minor scale of this war for Mithril Hall.

 Alustriel knew better, knew how she, like her city, would beultimately judged.

 She managed to bring the chariot crashing down to a wideledge, and she tumbled out as the fiery dweomer dissipated intonothingness.

 The Lady of Silverymoon sat there against the stone, in thecold, looking down on the distant scramble far below her. She wasout of the fight, but she had done her part.

 She knew she could die with no guilt weighing on her heart.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Berg'inyon Baenre rode through the ranks of lizard mounted drow, holding high his twin bloodstained swords. The dark elvesrallied behind their leader, filtered from obelisk to obelisk, cuttingthe battlefield in half and more. The mobility and speed of thelarger horses favored the knights, but the dark elves' cunning tactics were quick to steal that advantage.

 To their credit, the knights were killing drow at a ratio of oneto one, a remarkable feat considering the larger drow numbersand the skill of their enemies. Even so, the ranks of knights werebeing diminished.

 Hope came in the form of a fat wizard riding a half-horse,half-frog beastie and leading the remnants of the defenders of thesouthern face, hundreds of men, riding and running—from battle and into battle.

 Berg'inyon's force was fast pushed across the breadth ofKeeper's Dale, back toward the northern wall, and the defendingknights rode free once more.

 But in came the pursuit from the south, the vast force of drowand humanoid monsters. In came those dark elf wizards who had survived Alustriel's conflagration in the thick copse.

 The ranks of the defenders quickly sorted out, with Berkthgar's hardy warriors rallying behind their mighty leader andBesnell's knights linking with the force that had stood firm inKeeper's Dale. Likewise did the Longriders fall into line behindRegweld, and the Riders of Nesme—both of the survivors—joined their brethren from the west.

 Magic flashed and metal clanged and man and beast screamedin agony. The mist thickened with sweat, and the stone floor ofthe valley darkened with blood.

 The defenders would have liked to form a solid line ofdefense, but to do so would leave them terribly vulnerable to thewizards, so they had followed savage Berkthgar's lead, hadplunged into the enemy force headlong, accepting the sheerchaos.

 Berg'inyon ran his mount halfway up the northern wall, highabove the valley, to survey the glorious carnage. The weaponmaster cared nothing for his dead comrades, including many dark elves, whose broken bodies littered the valley floor.

 This fight would be won easily, Berg'inyon thought, and thewestern door to Mithril Hall would be his.

 All glory for House Baenre.

 *****

 When Stumpet Rakingclaw came up from the Undercity toMithril Hall's western door, she was dismayed—not by thereports of the vicious fighting out in Keeper's Dale, but by the factthat the dwarven guards had not gone out to aid the valiantdefenders.

 Their orders had been explicit: they were to remain inside thecomplex, to defend the tighter tunnels, and then, if the secret door was found by the enemy and the defenders were pushed back, thedwarves were prepared to drop those tunnels near the door.Those orders, given by General Dagna, Bruenor's second in command, had not foreseen the battle of Keeper's Dale.

 Bruenor had appointed Stumpet as High Cleric of MithrilHall, and had done so publicly and with much fanfare, so that there would be no confusion concerning rank once battle wasjoined. That decision, that public ceremony, gave Stumpet thepower she needed now, allowed her to change the orders, and thefive hundred dwarves assigned to guard the western door, whohad watched with horror the carnage from afar, were all toohappy to hear the new command.

 There came a rumbling beneath the ground in all of Keeper'sDale, the grating of stone against stone. On the northern side of

  

 the valley, Berg'inyon held tight to his sticky-footed mount andhoped the thing wouldn't be shaken from the wall. He listenedclosely to the echoes, discerning the pattern, then looked to thesoutheastern corner of the valley.

 A glorious, stinging light flashed there as the western door of Mithril Hall slid open.

 Berg'inyon's heart skipped a beat. The dwarves had openedthe way!

 Out they came, hundreds of bearded folk, rushing to theirallies' aid, singing and banging their axes and hammers againsttheir shining shields, pouring from the door that was secret nomore. They came up to, and beyond, Berkthgar's line, their tightbattle groups slicing holes in the ranks of goblin and kobold and drow alike, pushing deeper into the throng.

 "Fools!" the Baenre weapon master whispered, for even if a thousand, or two thousand dwarves came into Keeper's Dale, thecourse of the battle would not be changed. They had come outbecause their morals demanded it, Berg'inyon knew. They hadopened their door and abandoned their best defenses because their ears could not tolerate the screams of men dying in theirdefense.

 How weak these surface dwellers were, the sinister drowthought, for in Menzoberranzan courage and compassion werenever confused.

 The furious dwarves came into the battle hard, drivingthrough drow and goblins with abandon. Stumpet Rakingclaw,fresh from her exploits in the Undercity, led their charge. She wasout of light pellets but called to her god now, enacting enchantments to brighten Keeper's Dale. The dark elves quickly countered every spell, as the dwarf expected, but Stumpet figured thatevery drow concentrating on a globe of darkness was out of thefight, at least momentarily. The magic of Moradin, Dumathoin,and Clanggedon flowed freely through the priestess. She felt as though she was a pure conduit, the connection to the surface forthe dwarven gods.

 The dwarves rallied around her loud prayers as she screamedto her gods with all her heart. Other defenders rallied around the dwarves, and suddenly they were gaining back lost ground. Suddenly the idea of a single line of defense was not so ridiculous.

  

 High on the wall across the way, Berg'inyon chuckled at thefutility of it all. This was a temporary surge, he knew, and the defenders of the western door had come together in one final,futile push. All the defense and all the defenders, and Berg'inyon'sforce still outnumbered them several times over.

 The weapon master coaxed his mount back down the wall,gathered his elite troops about him, and determined how to turnback the momentum. When Keeper's Dale fell, so, too, would thewestern door.

 And Keeper's Dale would fall, Berg'inyon assured his companions with all confidence, within the hour.

 Chapter 26

 SNARL AGAINST SNARL

 The main corridors leading to the lower door of MithrilHall had been dropped and sealed, but that had beenexpected by the invading army. Even with the largestconcentration of drow slowed to a crawl out in the tunnels beyond the door, the dwarven complex was hard pressed. And although no reports had come to Uthegental about the fighting outside the mountain, the mighty weapon master could well imaginethe carnage on the slopes, with dwarves and weakling humansdying by the score. Both doors of Mithril Hall were likely breachedby now, Uthegental believed, with Berg'inyon's lizard riders flooding the higher tunnels.

 That notion bothered the weapon master of Barrisondel'Armgo more than a little. If Berg'inyon was in Mithril Hall,and Drizzt Do'Urden was there, the renegade might fall to the sonof House Baenre. Thus Uthegental and the small band of a half-dozen elite warriors he took in tow now sought the narrow waysthat would get them to the lowest gate of Mithril Hall proper. Those tunnels should be open, with the dark elves filtering outfrom the Undercity to clear the way.

 The weapon master and his escort came into the cavern that had previously served as Bruenor's command post. It was deserted now, with only a few parchments and scraps from clerical preparations toshow that anyone had been in the place. After the fall of the tunnels and the collapse of portions of Tunult's Cavern (and many side tunnels, including the main one that led back to this chamber), Bruenor's lower groups apparently had been scattered, without anycentral command.

 Uthegental passed through the place, hardly giving it a thought.The drow band moved swiftly down the corridors, staying generally east, silently following the weapon master's urgent lead. They came to a wide fork in the trail and noticed the very old bones of a two-headed giant lying against the wall—ironically, a kill BruenorBattlehammer had made centuries before. Of more concern, though, was the fork in the tunnel.

 Frustrated at yet another delay, Uthegental sent scouts left andright, then he and the rest of his group went right, the more easterlycourse.

 Uthegental sighed, relieved that they had at last found thelower door, when his scout and another drow, a priestess, met him afew moments later.

 "Greetings, Weapon Master of the Second House," the priestessgreeted, affording mighty Uthegental more respect than was normally given to mere males.

 "Why are you out in the tunnels?" Uthegental wanted to know."We are still far from the Undercity. "

 "Farther than you think," the priestess replied, looking disdainfully back toward the east, down the long tunnel that ended at thelower door. "The way is not clear. "

 Uthegental issued a low growl. Those dark elves should havetaken the Undercity by now, and should have opened the passages.He stepped by the female, his pace revealing his anger.

 "You'll not break through," the priestess assured him, and hespun about, scowling as though she had slapped him in the face.

 "We have been striking at the door for an hour," the priestessexplained. "And we shall spend another week before we get pastthat barricade. The dwarves defend it well. "

 "Ultrin sargtlin!"Uthegental roared, his favorite title, to remindthe priestess of his reputation. Still, despite the fact that Uthegental

 had earned that banner of "Supreme Warrior," the female did not seem impressed.

 "A hundred drow, five wizards, and ten priestesses have notbreached the door," she said evenly. "The dwarves strike back againstour magic with great spears and balls of flaming pitch. And the tunnel leading to the door is narrow and filled with traps, as welldefended as House Baenre itself. Twenty minotaurs went down there,and those dozen that stumbled past the traps found hardy dwarveswaiting for them, coming out of concealment from small, secret cubbies. Twenty minotaurs were slain in the span of a few minutes.

 "You'll not break through," the priestess said again, her tonematter-of-fact and in no way insulting. "None of us will unless thosewho have entered the dwarven complex strike at the defenders ofthe door from behind. "

 Uthegental wanted to lash out at the female, mostly because hebelieved her claim.

 "Why would you wish to enter the complex?" the female askedunexpectedly, slyly.

 Uthegental eyed her with suspicion, wondering if she was questioning his bravery. Why wouldn't he want to find the fighting, after all?

 "Whispers say your intended prey is Drizzt Do'Urden," thepriestess went on.

 Uthegental's expression shifted from suspicion to intrigue.

 "Other whispers say the renegade is in the tunnels outsideMithril Hall," she explained, "hunting with his panther and killingquite a few drow. "

 Uthegental ran a hand through his spiked hair and looked backto the west, to the wild maze of tunnels he had left behind. He felt asurge of adrenaline course through his body, a tingling that tightened his muscles and set his features in a grim lock. He knew thatmany groups of enemies were operating in the tunnels outside thedwarven complex, scattered bands fleeing the seven-chamberedcavern where the first battle had been fought. Uthegental and hiscompanions had met and slain one such group of dwarves on their journey to this point.

 Now that he thought about it, it made sense to Uthegental thatDrizzt would be out here as well. It was very likely the renegadehad been in the battle in the seven-chambered cavern, and, if that

 was true, then why would Drizzt flee back into Mithril Hall?

 Drizzt was a hunter, a former patrol leader, a warrior that hadsurvived a decade alone with his magical panther in the wildUnderdark—no small feat, and one that even Uthegental respected.

 Yes, now that the priestess had told him the rumor, it made perfect sense to Uthegental that Drizzt Do'Urden would be out there,somewhere back in the tunnels to the west, roaming and killing. Theweapon master laughed loudly and started back the way he hadcome, offering no explanation.

 None was needed, to the priestess or to Uthegental's companions, who fell into line behind him.

 The weapon master of the second house was hunting.

 *****

 "We are winning," Matron Baenre declared.

 None of those around her—not Methil or Jarlaxle, not Matron Zeerith Q'Xorlarrin, of the fourth house, or Auro'pol Dyrr, matronmother of House Agrach Dyrr, now the fifth house, not Bladen'Kerstor Quenthel Baenre—argued the blunt statement.

 Gandalug Battlehammer, dirty and beaten, his wrists boundtightly by slender shackles so strongly enchanted that a giant couldnot break them, cleared his throat, a noise that sounded positivelygloating. There was more bluster than truth in the dwarf's attitude, for Gandalug carried with him a heavy weight. Even if his folk wereputting up a tremendous fight, dark elves had gotten into the Under-city. And they had come to that place because of Gandalug, because ofhis knowledge of the secret ways. The old dwarf understood that noone could withstand the intrusions of an illithid, but the guiltremained, the notion that he, somehow, had not been strong enough.

 Quenthel moved before Bladen'Kerst could react, smacking theobstinate prisoner hard across the back, her fingernails drawinglines of blood.

 Gandalug snorted again, and this time Bladen'Kerst whacked him with her five-tonged snake-headed whip, a blow that sent thesturdy dwarf to his knees.

 "Enough!" Matron Baenre growled at her daughters, a hint ofher underlying frustration showing through.

 They all knew—and it seemed Baenre did as well, despite her

 proclamation—that the war was not going according to plan. Jarlaxle's scouts had informed them of the bottleneck near Mithril Hall's lowest door, and that the eastern door from the surface hadbeen blocked soon after it was breached, at a cost of many drowlives. Quenthel's magical communications with her brother told herthat the fighting was still furious on the southern and western slopes of Fourthpeak, and that the western door from the surfacehad not yet been approached. And Methil, who had lost his twoillithid companions, had telepathically assured Matron Baenre thatthe fight for the Undercity was not yet won, not at all.

 Still, there was a measure of truth in Baenre's prediction of victory, they all knew, and her confidence was not completely superficial. The battle outside the mountain was not finished, but Berg'inyon had assured Quenthel that it soon would be—and giventhe power of the force that had gone out beside Berg'inyon, Quenthel had no reason to doubt his claim.

 Many had died in these lower tunnels, but most of the losses had been humanoid slaves, not dark elves. Now those dwarves who had been caught outside their complex after the tunnel collapse hadbeen forced into tactics of hunt and evade, a type of warfare that surely favored the stealthy dark elves.

 "All the lower tunnels will soon be secured," Matron Baenreelaborated, a statement made obvious by the simple fact that this group, which would risk no encounters, was on the move oncemore. The elite force surrounding Baenre was responsible for guiding and guarding the first matron mother. They would not allowBaenre any advancement unless the area in front of them wasdeclared secure.

 "The region above the ground around Mithril Hall will also be secured," Baenre added, "with both surface doors to the complex breached. "

 "And likely dropped," Jarlaxle dared to put in.

 "Sealing the dwarves in their hole," Matron Baenre was quick torespond. "We will fight through this lower door, and our wizards andpriestesses will find and open new ways into the tunnels of thecomplex, that we might filter among our enemy's ranks. "

 Jarlaxle conceded the point, as did the others, but what Baenrewas talking about would take quite a bit of time, and a drawn out siege had not been part of the plan. The prospect did not sit well with

 any of those around Matron Baenre, particularly the other twomatron mothers. Baenre had pressured them to come out, so theyhad, though their houses, and all the city, was in a critical power flux.In exchange for the personal attendance of the matron mothers in thelong march, House Xorlarrin and House Agrach Dyrr had been allowed to keep most of their soldiers at home, while the otherhouses, particularly the other ruling houses, had sent as much as halftheir complement of dark elves. For the few months that the armywas expected to be away, the fourth and fifth Houses seemed secure.

 But Zeerith and Auro'pol had other concerns, worries of powerstruggles within their families. The hierarchy of any drow house,except perhaps for Baenre, was always tentative, and the twomatron mothers knew that if they were away for too long, they might return to find they had been replaced.

 They exchanged concerned looks now, doubting expressionsthat ever observant Jarlaxle did not miss.

 Baenre's battle group moved along on its slow and determinedway, the three matron mothers floating atop their driftdisks, flankedby Baenre's two daughters (dragging the dwarf) and the illithid,who seemed to glide rather than walk, his feet hidden under hislong, heavy robes. A short while later, Matron Baenre informedthem that they would find an appropriate cavern and set up a central throne room, from which she could direct the continuing fight.

 It was another indication that the war would be a long one, andagain Zeerith and Auro'pol exchanged disconcerted looks.

 Bladen'Kerst Baenre narrowed her eyes at both of them, silentlythreatening.

 Jarlaxle caught it all, every connotation, every hint of whereMatron Baenre might find her greatest troubles.

 The mercenary leader bowed low and excused himself, explaining that he would join up with his band and try to garner moretimely information.

 Baenre waved her hand, dismissing him without a secondthought. One of her escorts was not so casual.

 You and your mercenaries will flee,came an unexpected messagein Jarlaxle's mind.

 The mercenary's own thoughts whirled in a jumble, and, caughtoff guard, he couldn't avoid sending the telepathic reply that thenotion of deserting the war had indeed crossed his mind. As close to

 desperation as he had ever been, Jarlaxle looked back over hisshoulder at the expressionless face of the intruding illithid.

 Beware of Baenre should she return,Methil imparted casually, andhe continued on his way with Baenre and the others.

 Jarlaxle paused for a long while when the group moved out ofsight, scrutinizing the emphasis of the illithid's last communication.He came to realize that Methil would not inform Baenre of hiswavering loyalty. Somehow, from the way the message had beengiven, Jarlaxle knew that.

 The mercenary leaned against a stone wall, thinking hard aboutwhat his next move should be. If the drow army stayed together,Baenre would eventually win—that much he did not doubt. Thelosses would be greater than anticipated (they already had been),but that would be of little concern once Mithril Hall was taken,along with all its promised riches.

 What, then, was Jarlaxle to do? The disturbing question was stillbouncing about the mercenary's thoughts when he found some ofhis Bregan D'aerthe lieutenants, all bearing news of the continuingbottleneck near the lower door, and information that even more dark elves and slaves were being killed in the outer tunnels, falling prey to roving bands of dwarves and their allies.

 The dwarves were defending, and fighting, well.

 Jarlaxle made his decision and relayed it silently to his lieutenants in the intricate hand code. Bregan D'aerthe would notdesert, not yet. But neither would they continue to spearhead theattack, risking their forward scouts.

 Avoid all fights,Jarlaxle's fingers flashed, and the gathered soldiers nodded their accord.We stay out of the way, and we watch, nothing more.

 Until Mithril Hall is breached,one of the lieutenants reasonedback.

 Jarlaxle nodded.Or until the war becomes futile, his fingersreplied, and from his expression, it was obvious the mercenaryleader did not think his last words ridiculous.

 *  *  *  *  *

 Pwent and his band rambled through tunnel after runnel, growing frustrated, for they found no drow, or even kobolds, to slam.

 "Where in the Nine Hells are we?" the battlerager demanded.No answer came in reply, and when he thought about it, Pwentreally couldn't expect one. He knew these tunnels better than any inhis troupe, and if he had no idea where they were, then certainly theothers were lost.

 That didn't bother Pwent so much. He and his furious bandreally didn't care where they were as long as they had something tofight. Lack of enemies was the real problem.

 "Start to bangin'!" Pwent roared, and the Gutbusters ran to thewalls in the narrow corridor and began slamming hammers againstthe stone, causing such a commotion that every creature within twohundred yards would easily be able to figure out where they were.

 Poor Bidderdoo Harpell, swept up in the wake of the craziest band of suicidal dwarves, stood in the middle of the tunnel, usinghis glowing gem to try to sort through the few remaining parchments from his blasted spellbook, looking for a spell, any spell(though preferably one that would get him out of this place!).

 The racket went on for several minutes, and then, frustrated,Pwent ordered his dwarves to form up, and off they stormed. Theywent under a natural archway, around a couple of bends in the passage, then came upon a wider and squarer way, a tunnel withworked stone along its walls and an even floor. Pwent snapped hisfingers, realizing that they had struck out to the west and south ofMithril Hall. He knew this place, and knew that he would find adwarven defensive position around the next corner. He bobbed around in the lead, and scrambled over a barricade that reachednearly to the ceiling, hoping to find some more allies to "enlist" intohis terror group. As he crested the wall, Pwent stopped short, hissmile erased.

 Ten dwarves lay dead on the stone floor, amidst a pile of torngoblins and orcs.

 Pwent fell over the wall, landed hard, but bounced right back tohis feet. He shook his head as he walked among the carnage. Thisposition was strongly fortified, with the high wall behind, and a lowerwall in front, where the corridor turned a sharp corner to the left.

 Mounted against that left-hand wall, just before the side tunnel, was a curious contraption, a deadly dwarven side-slinger catapult, with a short, strong arm that whipped around to the side,not over the top, as with conventional catapults. The arm was

 pulled back now, ready to fire, but Pwent noticed immediately that all the ammunition was gone, that the valiant dwarves had heldout to the last.

 Pwent could smell the remnants of that catapult's missiles andcould see flickering shadows from the small fires. He knew beforehe peeked around the bend that many, many dead enemies wouldline the corridor beyond.

 "They died well," the battlerager said to his minions as they andBidderdoo crossed the back wall and walked among the bodies.

 The charge around the corner came fast and silent, a handful ofdark elves rushing out, swords drawn.

 Had Bidderdoo Harpell not been on the alert (and had he notfound the last remaining usable page of his spellbook), that wouldhave been the swift end of the Gutbuster Brigade, but the wizardgot his spell off, enacting a blinding (to the drow) globe of brilliantlight.

 The surprised dark elves hesitated just an instant, but longenough for the Gutbusters to fall into battle posture. Suddenly itwas seven dwarves against five dark elves, the element of surprise gone. Seven battleragers against five dark elves, and what was worse for the drow, these battleragers happened to be standing among the bodies of dead kin.

 They punched and kicked, jumped, squealed and head-butted with abandon, ignoring any hits, fighting to make their most wild leader proud. They plowed under two of the drow, and one dwarfbroke free, roaring as he charged around the bend.

 Pwent got one drow off to the side, caught the dark elf's swinging sword in one metal gauntlet and punched straight out with theother before the drow could bring his second sword to bear.

 The drow's head verily exploded under the weight of thespiked gauntlet, furious Pwent driving his fist right through the doomed creature's skull.

 He hit the drow again, and a third time, then tossed the brokenbody beside the other four dead dark elves. Pwent looked around athis freshly bloodied troops, noticed at once that one was missing,and noticed, too, that Bidderdoo was trembling wildly, his jowlsflapping noisily. The battlerager would have asked the wizard about it, but then the cry of agony from down the side corridor chilled the marrow in even sturdy Thibbledorf Pwent's bones. He leaped to the

 corner and looked around.

 The carnage along the length of the fifty-foot corridor was evenmore tremendous than Pwent had expected. Scores of humanoidslay dead, and several small fires still burned, so thick was the pitchfrom the catapult missiles along the floor and walls.

 Pwent watched as a large form entered the other end of the passage, a shadowy form, but the battlerager knew it was a dark elf,though certainly the biggest he had ever seen. The drow carried alarge trident, and on the end of the trident, still wriggling in the lastmoments of his life, was Pwent's skewered Gutbuster. Anotherdrow came out behind the huge weapon master, but Pwent hardlynoticed the second form, and hardly cared if a hundred more wereto follow.

 The battlerager roared in protest, but did not charge. In a raremoment where cleverness outweighed rage, Pwent hopped backaround the corner.

 "What is it, Most Wild Battlerager?" three of the Gutbustersyelled together.

 Pwent didn't answer. He jumped into the basket of the side-slinger and slashed his spiked gauntlet across the trigger rope, cutting it cleanly.

 Uthegental Armgo had just shaken free the troublesome killwhen the side-slinger went off, shooting the missile Pwent downthe corridor. The weapon master's eyes went wide; he screamed asPwent screamed. Suddenly Uthegental wished he still had the deaddwarf handy, that he might use the body as a shield. Purely oninstinct, the warrior drow did the next best thing. He grabbed hisdrow companion by the collar of hispiwafwi and yanked him infront.

 Pwent's helmet spike, and half his head, blasted the unfortunatedark elf, came through cleanly enough to score a hit on Uthegentalas well.

 The mighty weapon master extracted himself from the tumbleas Pwent tore free of the destroyed drow. They came together in a fitof fury, rage against rage, snarl against snarl, Pwent scoring several hits, but Uthegental, so strong and skilled, countering fiercely.

 The butt of the trident slammed Pwent's face, and his eyescrossed. He staggered backward and realized, to his horror, that he had just given this mighty foe enough room to skewer him.

 A silver beast, a great wolf running on its hind legs, barreledinto Uthegental from the side, knocking him back to the floor.

 Pwent shook his head vigorously, clearing his mind, and regarded the newest monster with more than a little apprehension. Heglanced back up the corridor to see his Gutbusters approaching fast, all of them pointing to the wolf and howling with glee.

 "Bidderdoo," Pwent mumbled, figuring it out.

 Uthegental tossed the werewolf Harpell aside and leaped backto his feet. Before he had fully regained his balance, though, Pwentsprang atop him.

 A second dwarf leaped atop him, followed by a third, a fourth,the whole of the Gutbuster Brigade.

 Uthegental roared savagely, and suddenly, the drow possessed the strength of a giant. He stood tall, dwarves hanging allover him, and threw his arms out wide, plucking dwarves and hurling them as though they were mere rodents.

 Pwent slammed him in the chest, a blow that would have killed afair-sized cow.

 Uthegental snarled and gave the battlerager a backhand slapthat launched Pwent a dozen feet.

 "Ye're good," a shaky Pwent admitted, coming up to one knee as Uthegental stalked in.

 For the first time in his insane life (except, perhaps, for when he had inadvertently battled Drizzt), Thibbledorf Pwent knew he wasoutmatched—knew that his whole brigade was outmatched!—and thought he was dead. Dwarves lay about groaning and none wouldbe able to intercept the impossibly strong drow.

 Instead of trying to stand, Pwent cried out and hurled himself forward, scrambling on his knees. He came up at the last second,throwing all of his weight into a right hook.

 Uthegental caught the hand in midswing and fully halted Pwent's momentum. The mighty drow's free hand closed over Pwent's face, and Uthegental began bending the poor battleragerover backward.

 Pwent could see the snarling visage through the wide-spread fingers. He somehow found the strength to lash out with his freeleft, and scored a solid hit on the drow's forearm.

 Uthegental seemed not to care.

 Pwent whimpered.

 The weapon master threw his head back suddenly.

 Pwent thought the drow meant to issue a roar of victory, but nosound came from Uthegental's mouth, no noise at all, until amoment later when he gurgled incoherently.

 Pwent felt the drow's grip relax, and the battlerager quicklypulled away. As he straightened, Pwent came to understand. Thesilver werewolf had come up behind Uthegental and had bitten the drow on the back of the neck. Bidderdoo held on still, all the pressure of his great maw crushing the vertebrae and the nerves.

 The two held the macabre pose for many seconds; all the conscious Gutbusters gathered about them marveled at the strength ofBidderdoo's mouth, and at the fact that this tremendous drow warrior was still holding his feet.

 There came a loud crack, and Uthegental jerked suddenly, violently. Down he fell, the wolf atop him, holding fast.

 Pwent pointed to Bidderdoo. "I got to get him to show me howhe did that," the awe-stricken battlerager remarked.

 Bidderdoo, clamped tightly on his kill, didn't hear.

 Chapter 27

 THE LONGEST NIGHT

 Belwar heard the echoes, subtle vibrations in the thick

 stone that no surface dweller could ever have noticed.

 The other three hundred svirfnebli heard them as well.

 This was the way of the deep gnomes—in the deepertunnels of the Underdark, they often communicated by sending quiet vibrations through the rock. They heard the echoes now, constant echoes, not like the one huge explosion they had heard a couple of hours before, the rumbling of an entire network of tunnelsbeing dropped. The seasoned svirfnebli fighters considered thenewest sound, a peculiar rhythm, and they knew what it meant. Battle had been joined, a great battle, and not so far away.

 Belwar conferred with his commanders many times as theyinched through the unfamiliar terrain, trying to follow thestrongest vibrations. Often one of the svirfnebli on the perimeter, or at the point of the group, would tap his hammer slightly on thestone, trying to get a feel for the density of the rock. Echo huntingwas tricky because the density of the stone was never uniform,and vibrations were often distorted. Thus, the svirfnebli, arguablythe finest echo followers in all the world, found themselves more

 than once going the wrong way down a fork in the trail.

 A determined and patient bunch, though, they stayed with it,and after many frustrating minutes, a priest named Suntunavickbobbed up to Belwar and Firble and announced with all confi dence that this was as close to the sound as these tunnels wouldallow them to get.

 The two followed the priest to the exact spot, alternatelyputting their ears against the stone. Indeed the noise beyond wasloud, relatively speaking.

 And constant, Belwar noted with some confusion, for this wasnot the echoing of give-and-take battle, not the echoes they hadheard earlier, or at least, there was more to the sound than that.

 Suntunavick assured the burrow warden this was the correctplace. Mixed in with this more constant sound was the familiarrhythm of battle joined.

 Belwar looked to Firble, who nodded, then to Suntunavick. Theburrow warden poked his finger at the spot on the wall, thenbacked away, so Suntunavick and the other priests could crowd in.

 They began their chanting, a grating, rumbling, and apparently wordless sound, and every once in a while one of the priestswould throw a handful of some mudlike substance against thestone.

 The chanting hit a crescendo; Suntunavick rushed up to thewall, his hands straight out in front of him, palms pressed tightly together. With a cry of ecstacy, the little gnome thrust his fingersstraight into the stone. Then he groaned, his arm and shouldermuscles flexing as he pulled the wall apart, opened it as though it were no more solid than a curtain of heavy fabric.

 The priest jumped back, and so did all the others, as the echobecame a roar and a fine spray, the mist of a waterfall, came in on them.

 "The surface, it is," Firble muttered, barely able to find hisbreath.

 And so it was, but this deluge of water was nothing like anyof the gnomes had pictured the surface world, was nothing like the descriptions in the many tales they had heard of the strangeplace. Many in the group harbored thoughts of turning back thenand there, but Belwar, who had spoken with Drizzt not so longago, knew something here was out of the ordinary.

 The burrow warden hooked a rope from his belt with his pick-axehand and held it out to Firble, indicating that the councilor should tie it about his waist. Firble did so and took up the other end, bracing himself securely.

 With only the slightest of hesitation, the brave Belwarsqueezed through the wall, through the veil of mist. He found thewaterfall, and a ledge that led him around it, and Belwar gazedupon stars.

 Thousands of stars!

 The gnome's heart soared. He was awed and frightened all atonce. This was the surface world, that greatest of caverns, under a dome that could not be reached.

 The moment of pondering, of awe, was short-lived, defeated by the clear sounds of battle. Belwar was not in Keeper's Dale, buthe could see the light of the fight, flames from torches and magical enchantments, and he could hear the ring of metal against metal and the familiar screams of the dying.

 With Belwar in their lead, the three hundred svirfnebli filtered out of the caverns and began a quiet march to the east. They cameupon many areas that seemed impassable, but a friendly elemental, summoned by gnomish priests, opened the way. In but a fewminutes, the battle was in sight, the scramble within the mistyvale, of armor-clad horsemen and lizard-riding drow, of wretchedgoblins and kobolds and huge humans more than twice the heightof the tallest svirfneblin.

 Now Belwar did hesitate, realizing fully that his force of threehundred would plunge into a battle of thousands, a battle inwhich the gnomes had no way of discerning who was winning.

 "It is why we have come," Firble whispered into the burrowwarden's ear.

 Belwar looked hard at his uncharacteristically brave companion.

 "For Blingdenstone," Firble said.

 Belwar led the way.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Drizzt held his breath, they all did, and even Guenhwyvarwas wise enough to stifle an instinctive snarl.

 The five companions huddled on a narrow ledge in a high,wide corridor, while a column of drow, many drow, marched past,a line that went on and on and seemed as if it would never end.

 Two thousand? Drizzt wondered. Five thousand? He had noway of guessing. There were too many, and he couldn't rightly stickhis head out and begin a count. What Drizzt did understand wasthat the bulk of the drow force had linked together and was marching with a singular purpose. That could mean only that the way had been cleared, at least to Mithril Hall's lower door. Drizzt took heartwhen he thought of that door, of the many cunning defenses that had been rigged in that region. Even this mighty force would behard-pressed to get through the portal; the tunnels near the lowerdoor would pile high with bodies, drow and dwarf alike.

 Drizzt dared to slowly shift his head, to look past Guenhwyvar, tight against the wall beside him, to Bruenor, stuck uncomfortably between the panther's rear end and the wall. Drizztalmost managed a smile at the sight, and at the thought that hehad better move quickly once the drow column passed, for Bruenor would likely heave the panther right over the lip of the ledge, taking Drizzt with her.

 But that smile did not come to Drizzt, not in the face of hisdoubts. Had he done right in leading Bruenor out here? he wondered, not for the first time. They could have gone back to the lowerdoor with the dwarves they had met hours before; the king ofMithril Hall could be in place among his army. Drizzt did notunderestimate how greatly Bruenor's fiery presence would bolsterthe defense of that lower door, and the defense of the Undercity.Every dwarf of Mithril Hall would sing a little louder and fight witha bit more heart in the knowledge that King Bruenor Battlehammerwas nearby, joining in the cause, his mighty axe leading the way.

 Drizzt's reasoning had kept Bruenor out, and now the drowwondered if his action had been selfish. Could they even find theenemy leaders? Likely the priestesses who had led this army would be well hidden, using magic from afar, directing theirforces with no more compassion than if the soldiers were pawnson a gigantic chess board.

 The matron mother, or whoever was leading this force, wouldtake no personal risks, because that was the drow way.

 Suddenly, up there and crouched on that ledge, Drizzt

 Do'Urden felt very foolish. They were hunting the head, as he hadexplained to Bruenor, but that head would not be easy to find.And, given the size of the force that was marching along belowthem, toward Mithril Hall, Drizzt and Bruenor and their othercompanions would not likely get anywhere near the dwarvencomplex anytime soon.

 The ranger put his head down and blew a deep, silent breath,composing himself, reminding himself he had taken the only possible route to winning the day, that though that lower door wouldnot be easily breached, it would eventually come down, whether or not Bruenor Battlehammer was among the defenders. But outhere now, with so many drow and so many tunnels, Drizzt beganto appreciate the enormity of the task before him. How could he ever hope to find the leaders of the drow army?

 What Drizzt did not know was that he was not the only oneon a purposeful hunt.

 *    *    *    *     *

 "No word from Bregan D'aerthe. "

 Matron Baenre sat atop her driftdisk, digesting the words and the meaning behind them. Quenthel started to repeat them, but a threatening scowl from her mother stopped her short.

 Still the phrase echoed in Matron Baenre's mind. "No word from Bregan D'aerthe. "

 Jarlaxle was lying low, Baenre realized. For all his bravado,the mercenary leader was, in fact, a conservative one, very cautious of any risks to the band he had spent centuries puttingtogether. Jarlaxle hadn't been overly eager to march to MithrilMall, and had, in fact, come along only because he hadn't really been given a choice in the matter.

 Like Triel, Baenre's own daughter and closest advisor, themercenary had hoped for a quick and easy conquest and a fast return to Menzoberranzan, where so many questions were still to be answered. The fact that no word had come lately from the Bregan D'aerthe scouts could be coincidence, but Baenre suspecteddifferently. Jarlaxle was lying low, and that could mean only that he, with the reports that he was constantly receiving from the sly scouts of his network, believed the momentum halted, that he,

 like Baenre herself, had come to the conclusion that Mithril Hallwould not be easily swept away.

 The withered old matron mother accepted the news stoically,with confidence that Jarlaxle would be back in the fold once thetide turned again in the dark elves' favor. She would have to comeup with a creative punishment for the mercenary leader, ofcourse, one that would let Jarlaxle know the depth of her dismaywithout costing her a valuable ally.

 A short while later, the air in the small chamber Baenre hadcome to use as her throne room began to tingle with the buddingenergy of an enchantment. All in the room glanced nervouslyabout and breathed easier when Methil stepped out of thin airinto the midst of the drow priestesses.

 His expression revealed nothing, just the same passive, observant stare that always came from one of Methil's otherworldly race. Baenre considered that always unreadable face the mostfrustrating facet of dealing with the illithids. Never did they give even the subtlest clue of their true intentions.

 Uthegental Armgo is dead,came a thought in Baenre's mind, ablunt report from Methil.

 Now it was Baenre's turn to put on a stoic, unrevealing facade.Methil had given the disturbing thought to her and to her alone, she knew. The others, particularly Zeerith and Auro'pol,who were becoming more and more skittish, did not need toknow the news was bad, very bad.

 The march to Mithril Hall goes well,came Methil's next telepathicmessage. The illithid shared it with all in the room, whichMatron Baenre realized by the suddenly brightening expressions.The tunnelsare clear all the way to the lower door, where the army gathers andprepares.

 Many nods and smiles came back at the illithid, and Matron Baenredid not have any more trouble than Methil in reading thethoughts behind those expressions. The illithid was working hard to bolster morale—always a tentative thing in dealing with dark elves. But,like Quenthel's report, or lack of report, from Bregan D'aerthe, the firstmessage the illithid had given echoed in Baenre's thoughts disconcertingly. Uthegental Armgo was dead! What might the soldiers of Barrison del'Armgo, a significant force vital to the cause, do when they discovered their leader had been slain?

 And what of Jarlaxle? Baenre wondered. If he had learned ofthe brutish weapon master's fall, that would certainly explain thesilence of Bregan D'aerthe. Jarlaxle might be fearing the loss of theBarrison del'Armgo garrison, a desertion that would shake theranks of the army to its core.

 Jarlaxle does not know, nor do the soldiers of the second house,Methil answered her telepathically, obviously reading herthoughts.

 Still Baenre managed to keep up the cheery (relatively speaking) front, seeming thrilled at the news of the army's approach tothe lower door. She clearly saw a potential cancer growing withinher ranks, though, a series of events that could destroy thealready shaky integrity of her army and her alliances, and couldcost her everything. She felt as though she were falling back tothat time of ultimate chaos in Menzoberranzan just before themarch, when K'yorl seemed to have the upper hand.

 The destruction of House Oblodra had solidified the situationthen, and Matron Baenre felt she needed something akin to thatnow, some dramatic victory that would leave no doubts in theminds of the rank and file. Foster loyalty with fear. She thought ofHouse Oblodra again and toyed with the idea of a similar displayagainst Mithril Hall's lower door. Baenre quickly dismissed it,realizing that what had happened in Menzoberranzan had been aone-time event. Never before (and likely never again—and certainly not so soon afterward!) had Lloth come so gloriously andso fully to the Material Plane. On the occasion of House Oblodra'sfall, Matron Baenre had been the pure conduit of the SpiderQueen's godly power.

 That would not happen again.

 Baenre's thoughts swirled in a different direction, a more feasible trail to follow.Who killed Uthegental? she thought, knowingthat Methil would "hear" her.

 The illithid had no answer, but understood what Baenre wasimplying. Baenre knew what Uthegental had sought, knew theonly prize that really mattered to the mighty weapon master. Perhaps he had found Drizzt Do'Urden.

 If so, that would mean Drizzt Do'Urden was in the lower tunnels, not behind Mithril Hall's barricades.

 You follow a dangerous course,Methil privately warned, before

 Baenre could even begin to plot out the spells that would let herfind the renegade.

 Matron Baenre dismissed that notion with hardly a care. Shewas the first matron mother of Menzoberranzan, the conduit ofLloth, possessed of powers that could snuff the life out of anydrow in the city, any matron mother, any wizard, any weaponmaster, with hardly an effort. Baenre's course now was indeeddangerous, she agreed—dangerous for Drizzt Do'Urden.

 * * * * *

 Most devastating was the dwarven force and the center of theblocking line, a great mass of pounding, singing warriors,mulching goblins and orcs under their heavy hammers and axes,leaping in packs atop towering minotaurs, their sheer weight ofnumbers bringing the brutes down.

 But all along the eastern end of Keeper's Dale, the press was toogreat from every side. Mounted knights rushed back and forth acrossthe barbarian line, bolstering the ranks wherever the enemy seemed to be breaking through, and with their timely support, the line held. Evenso, Berkthgar's people found themselves inevitably pushed back.

 The bodies of kobolds and goblins piled high in Keeper'sDale; a score dying for every defender. But the drow could affordthose losses, had expected them, and Berg'inyon, sitting astridehis lizard, calmly watching the continuing battle from afar alongwith the rest of the Baenre riders, knew that the time for slaughtergrew near. The defenders were growing weary, he realized. Theminutes had turned into an hour, and that into two, and theassault did not diminish.

 Back went the defending line, and the towering eastern wallsof Keeper's Dale were not so far behind them. When those wallshalted the retreat, the drow wizards would strike hard. ThenBerg'inyon would lead the charge, and Keeper's Dale would runeven thicker with the blood of humans.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Besnell knew they were losing, knew that a dozen dead goblinswere not worth the price of an inch of ground. A resignation began

  

 to grow within the elf, tempered only by the fact that never had he seen his knights in finer form. Their tight battle groups rushed to and fro, trampling enemies, and though every man was breathing so hard he could barely sing out a war song, and every horse waslathered in thick sweat, they did not relent, did not pause.

 Grimly satisfied, and yet terribly worried—and not just for hisown men, for Alustriel had made no further appearance on thefield—the elf turned his attention to Berkthgar, then he was trulyamazed. The huge flamberge, Bankenfuere, hummed as it sweptthrough the air, each cut obliterating any enemies foolish enough to stand close to the huge man. Blood, much of it his own, covered thebarbarian from head to toe, but if Berkthgar felt any pain, he did notshow it. His song and his dance were to Tempus, the god of battle,and so he sang, and so he danced, and so his enemies died.

 In Besnell's mind, if the drow won here and conqueredMithril Hall, one of the most tragic consequences would be thatthe tale of the exploits of mighty Berkthgar the Bold would notleave Keeper's Dale.

 A tremendous flash to the side brought the elf from his contemplations. He looked down the line to see Regweld Harpell surrounded by a dozen dead or dying, flaming goblins. Regweld and Puddlejumper were also engulfed by the magical flames, dancinglicks of green and red, but the wizard and his extraordinary mountdid not seem bothered and continued to fight without regard for the fires. Indeed, those fires engulfing the duo became a weapon, an extension of Regweld's fury when the wizard leaped Puddlejumpernearly a dozen yards, to land at the feet of two towering minotaurs.Red and green flames became white hot and leaped out from thewizard's torso, engulfing the towering brutes. Puddlejumperhopped straight up, bringing Regweld even with the screamingminotaurs' ugly faces. Out came a wand, and green blasts of energy tore into the monsters.

 Then Regweld was gone, leaping to the next fight, leaving theminotaurs staggering, flames consuming them.

 "For the good of all goodly folk!" Besnell cried, holding his sword high. His battle group formed beside him, and the thunder ofthe charge began anew, this time barreling full stride through a massof kobolds. They scattered the beasts and came into a thicker throngof larger enemies, where the charge was stopped. Still atop their

 mounts, the Knights in Silver hacked through the morass, brightswords slaughtering enemies.

 Besnell was happy. He felt a satisfaction coursing through hisbody, a sensation of accomplishment and righteousness. The elfbelieved in Silverymoon with all his heart, believed in the precepthe yelled out at every opportunity.

 He was not sad when a goblin spear found a crease at the sideof his breastplate, rushed in through his ribs, and collapsed alung. He swayed in his saddle and somehow managed to knockthe spear from his side.

 "For the good of all goodly folk!" he said with all the strengthhe could muster. A goblin was beside his mount, sword comingin.

 Besnell winced with pain as he brought his own sword acrossto block. He felt weak and suddenly cold. He hardly registeredthe loss as his sword slipped from his hand to clang to theground.

 The goblin's next strike cut solidly against the knight's thigh,the drow-made weapon tearing through Besnell's armor anddrawing a line of bright blood.

 The goblin hooted, then went flying away, broken apart bythe mighty sweep of Bankenfuere.

 Berkthgar caught Besnell in his free hand as the knight slid offhis mount. The barbarian felt somehow removed from the battleat that moment, as though he and the noble elf were alone, in their own private place. Around them, not so far away, the knights continued the slaughter and no monsters approached.

 Berkthgar gently lowered Besnell to the ground. The elflooked up, his golden eyes seeming hollow.

 "For the good of all goodly folk," Besnell said, his voicebarely a whisper, but, by the grace of Tempus, or whatever godwas looking over the battle of Keeper's Dale, Berkthgar heardevery syllable.

 The barbarian nodded and silently laid the dead elf's head onthe stone.

 Then Berkthgar was up again, his rage multiplied, and hecharged headlong into the enemy ranks, his great sword cutting a wide swath.

 * * * * *

 Regweld Harpell had never known such excitement. Still inflames that did not harm him or his horse-frog, but attacked anythat came near, the wizard single-handedly bolstered the southern end of the defending line. He was quickly running out ofspells, but Regweld didn't care, knew that he would find someway to make himself useful, some way to destroy the wretchesthat had come to conquer Mithril Hall.

 A group of minotaurs converged on him, their great spears farout in front to prevent the fires from getting at them.

 Regweld smiled and coaxed Puddlejumper into another flying leap, straight up between the circling monsters, higher thaneven minotaurs and their long spears could reach.

 The Harpell let out a shout of victory, then a lightning boltsilenced him.

 Suddenly Regweld was free-flying, spinning in the air, andPuddlejumper was spinning the other way just below him.

 A second thundering bolt came in from a different angle, andthen a third, forking so that it hit both the wizard and his strangemount.

 They were each hit again, and again after that as they tumbled, falling very still upon the stone.

 The drow wizards had joined the battle.

 The invaders roared and pressed on, and even Berkthgar, outraged by the valiant elf's death, could not rally his men to holdthe line. Drow lizard riders filtered in through the humanoidranks, their long lances pushing the mounted knights inevitablyback, back toward the blocking wall.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Berg'inyon was among the first to see the next turn of thebattle. He ordered a rider up the side of a rock pillar, to gain a better vantage point, then turned his attention to a group nearby,pointing to the northern wall of the valley.

 Goup high, the weapon master's fingers signaled to them.Uphigh and around the enemy ranks, to rain death on them from abovewhen they are pushed back against the wall.

  

 Evil smiles accompanied the agreeing nods, but a cry from theother side, from the soldier Berg'inyon had sent up high, stole themoment.

 The rock pillar had come to life as a great elemental monster. Berg'inyon and the others looked on helplessly as the stone behemoth clapped together great rock arms, splattering the drow andhis lizard.

 There came a great clamor from behind the drow lines, fromthe west, and above the thunder of the svirfneblin charge washeard a cry of "Bivrip!" the word Belwar Dissengulp used to activate the magic in his crafted hands.

 *****

 It was a long time before Berkthgar and the other defenders atthe eastern end of Keeper's Dale even understood that allies hadcome from the west. Those rumors eventually filtered through thetumult of battle, though, heartening defender and striking fearinto invader. The goblins and dark elves engaged near that eastern wall began to look back the other way, wondering if disasterapproached.

 Now Berkthgar did rally what remained of the non-dwarvendefenders: two-third of his barbarians, less than a hundredKnights in Silver, a score of Longriders, and only two of the men from Nesme. Their ranks were depleted, but their spirit returned,and the line held again, even made progress in following thedwarven mass back out toward the middle of Keeper's Dale.

 Soon after, all semblance of order was lost in the valley; nolonger did lines of soldiers define enemies. In the west, the svirfneblin priests battled drow wizards, and Belwar's warriorscharged hard into drow ranks. They were the bitterest of enemies, ancient enemies, drow and svirfnebli. No less could be said on theeastern side of the valley, where dwarves and goblins hackedaway at each other with abandon.

 It went on through the night, a wild and horrible night.Berg'inyon Baenre engaged in little combat and kept the bulk ofhis elite lizard riders back as well, using his monstrous fodder to weary the defense. Even with the unexpected arrival of the smallbut powerful svirfneblin force, the drow soon turned the tide back

 their way.

 "We will win," the young Baenre promised those soldiers closest to him. "And then what defense might be left in placebeyond the western door of the dwarven complex?"

 Chapter 28

 DIVINATION

 Quenthel Baenre sat facing a cubby of the small chamber's wall, staring down into a pool of calm water. Shesquinted as the pool, a scrying pool, brightened, as the dawn broke on the outside world, not so far to the eastof Fourthpeak.

 Quenthel held her breath, though she wanted to cry out indespair.

 Across the small chamber, Matron Baenre was similarly divining. She had used her spells to create a rough map of the area, andthen to enchant a single tiny feather. Chanting again, Baenre tossedthe feather into the air above the spread parchment and blew softly."Drizzt Do'Urden," she whispered in that breath, and shepuffed again as the feather flopped and flitted down to the map. Awide, evil grin spread across Baenre's face when the feather, themagical pointer, touched down, its tip indicating a group of tunnelsnot far away.

 It was true, Baenre knew then. Drizzt Do'Urden was indeed inthe tunnels outside Mithril Hall.

 "We leave," the matron mother said suddenly, startling all in the

 quiet chamber.

 Quenthel looked back nervously over her shoulder, afraid thather mother had somehow seen what was in her scrying pool. TheBaenre daughter found that she couldn't see across the room,though, for the view was blocked by a scowling Bladen'Kerst, glaring down at her, and past her, at the approaching spectacle.

 "Where are we to go?" Zeerith, near the middle of the room, asked aloud, and from her tone, it was obvious she was hopingMatron Baenre's scrying had found a break in the apparent stalemate.

 Matron Baenre considered that tone and the sour expression onthe other matron mother's face. She wasn't sure whether Zeerith, and Auro'pol, who was similarly scowling, would have preferred tohear that the way was clear into Mithril Hall, or that the attack hadbeen called off. Looking at the two of them, among the very highest-ranking commanders of the drow army, Baenre couldn't tellwhether they preferred victory or retreat.

 That obvious reminder of how tentative her alliance was angered Baenre. She would have liked to dismiss both of them, or,better, to have them executed then and there. But Baenre could not,she realized. The morale of her army would never survive that. Besides, she wanted them, or at least one of them, to witness her glory, to see Drizzt Do'Urden given to Lloth.

 "You shall go to the lower door, to coordinate and strengthenthe attack," Baenre said sharply to Zeerith, deciding that the two ofthem standing together were becoming too dangerous. "AndAuro'pol shall go with me. "

 Auro'pol didn't dare ask the obvious question, but Baenre sawit clearly anyway from her expression.

 "We have business in the outer tunnels," was all Matron Baenrewould offer.

 Berg'inyon will soon see the dawn,Quenthel's fingers motioned toher sister.

 Bladen'Kerst, always angry, but now boiling with rage, turned away from Quenthel and the unwanted images in the scrying pooland looked back to her mother.

 Before she could speak, though, a telepathic intrusion came intoher mind, and into Quenthel's.Do not speak ill of other battles, Methilimparted to them both.Already, Zeerith and Auro'pol consider desertion.

 Bladen'Kerst considered the message and the implications and

 wisely held her information.

 The command group split apart, then, with Zeerith and a contingent of the elite soldiers going east, toward Mithril Hall, andMatron Baenre leading Quenthel, Bladen'Kerst, Methil, half a dozenskilled Baenre female warriors, and the chained Gandalug off to thesouth, in the direction of the spot indicated by her divining feather.

 *   *   *   *   *

 On another plane, the gray mists and sludge and terrible stenchof the Abyss, Errtu watched the proceedings in the glassy mirrorLloth had created on the side of the mushroom opposite his throne.

 The great balor was not pleased. Matron Baenre was huntingDrizzt Do'Urden, Errtu knew, and he knew, too, that Baenre would likely find the renegade and easily destroy him.

 A thousand curses erupted from the tanar'ri's doglike maw, allaimed at Lloth, who had promised him freedom—freedom that onlya living Drizzt Do'Urden could bestow.

 To make matters even worse, a few moments later, MatronBaenre was casting yet another spell, opening a planar gate to theAbyss, calling forth a mighty glabrezu to help in her hunting. In histwisted, always suspicious mind, Errtu came to believe that this summoning was enacted only to torment him, to take one of hisown kind and use the beast to facilitate the end of the pact. That wasthe way with tanar'ri, and with all the wretches of the Abyss, Lloth included. These creatures were without trust for others, since they,themselves, could not be trusted by any but a fool. And they werean ultimately selfish lot, every one. In Errtu's eyes, every actionrevolved around him, because nothing else mattered, and thus,Baenre summoning a glabrezu now was not coincidence, but a dagger jabbed by Lloth into Errtu's black heart.

 Errtu was the first to the opening gate. Even if he was not boundto the Abyss by banishment, he could not have gone through,because Baenre, so skilled in this type of summoning, was careful toword the enchantment for a specific tanar'ri only. But Errtu was waiting when the glabrezu appeared through the swirling mists,heading for the opened, flaming portal.

 The balor leaped out and lashed out with his whip, catching theglabrezu by the arm. No minor fiend, the glabrezu moved to strike

 back, but stopped, seeing that Errtu did not mean to continue the attack.

 "It is a deception!" Errtu roared.

 The glabrezu, its twelve-foot frame hunched low, great pincersnipping anxiously at the air, paused to listen.

 "I was to come forth on the Material Plane," Errtu went on.

 "You are banished," the glabrezu said matter-of-factly.

 "Lloth promised an end!" Errtu retorted, and the glabrezucrouched lower, as if expecting the volatile fiend to leap upon him.

 But Errtu calmed quickly. "An end, that I might return, andbring forth behind me an army of tanar'ri." Again Errtu paused. Hewas improvising now, but a plan was beginning to form in hiswicked mind.

 Baenre's call came again, and it took all the glabrezu's considerable willpower to keep it from leaping through the flaring portal.

 "She will allow you only one kill," Errtu said quickly, seeing the glabrezu's hesitance.

 "One is better than none," the glabrezu answered.

 "Even if that one prevents my freedom on the Material Plane?" Errtu asked. "Even if it prevents me from going forth, and bringing you forth as my general, that we might wreak carnage on the weakling races?"

 Baenre called yet again, and this time it was not so difficult for theglabrezu to ignore her.

 Errtu held up his great hands, indicating that the glabrezu should wait here a few moments longer, then the balor sped off, into theswirl, to retrieve something a lesser fiend had given him not solong ago, a remnant of the Time of Troubles. He returned shortlywith a metal coffer and gently opened it, producing a shining black sapphire. As soon as Errtu held it up, the flames of the magical portal diminished, and almost went out altogether. Errtu was quick toput the thing back in its case.

 "When the time is right, reveal this," the balor instructed, "mygeneral. "

 He tossed the coffer to the glabrezu, unsure, as was the other fiend, of how this would all play out. Errtu's great shoulders ruffledin a shrug then, for there was nothing else he could do. He could prevent this fiend from going to Baenre's aid, but to what end? Baenre hardly needed a glabrezu to deal with Drizzt Do'Urden, a

 mere warrior.

 The call from the Material Plane came yet again, and this timethe glabrezu answered, stepping through the portal to join MatronBaenre's hunting party.

 Errtu watched in frustration as the portal closed, another gatelost to the Material Plane, another gate that he could not passthrough. Now the balor had done all he could, though he had noway of knowing if it would be enough, and he had so much ridingon the outcome. He went back to his mushroom throne then, towatch and wait.

 And hope.

 ******

 Bruenor remembered. In the quiet ways of the tunnels, no enemies to be seen, the eighth king of Mithril Hall paused and reflected.Likely the dawn was soon to come on the outside, another crisp,cold day. But would it be the last day of Clan Battlehammer?

 Bruenor looked to his four friends as they took a quick meal anda short rest. Not one of them was a dwarf, not one.

 And yet, Bruenor Battlehammer could not name any otherfriends above these four: Drizzt, Catti-brie, Regis, and even Guenhwyvar. For the first time, that truth struck the dwarf king as curious. Dwarves, though not xenophobic, usually stayed to their ownkind. Witness General Dagna, who, if given his way, would kickDrizzt out of Mithril Hall and would take Taulmaril away fromCatti-brie, to hang the bow once more in the Hall of Dumathoin.Dagna didn't trust anyone who was not a dwarf.

 But here they were, Bruenor and his four non-dwarven companions, in perhaps the most critical and dangerous struggle of allfor the defense of Mithril Hall.

 Surely their friendship warmed the old dwarf king's heart, butreflecting on that now did something else as well.

 It made Bruenor think of Wulfgar, the barbarian who had beenlike his own son, and who would have married Catti-brie andbecome his son-in-law, the unlikely seven-foot prince of Mithril Hall. Bruenor had never known such grief as that which bowed hisstrong shoulders after Wulfgar's fall. Though he should live for more than another century, Bruenor had felt close to death in those

 weeks of grieving, and had felt as if death would be a welcomething.

 No longer. He missed Wulfgar still—forever would his gray eyemist up at the thought of the noble warrior—but he was the eighthking, the leader of his proud, strong clan. Bruenor's grief hadpassed the point of resignation and had shifted into the realm ofanger. The dark elves were back, the same dark elves who had killedWulfgar. They were the followers of Lloth, evil Lloth, and now theymeant to kill Drizzt and destroy all of Mithril Hall, it seemed.

 Bruenor had wetted his axe on drow blood many times duringthe night, but his rage was far from sated. Indeed, it was mounting, a slow but determined boil. Drizzt had promised they wouldhunt the head of their enemy, would find the leader, the priestessbehind this assault. It was a promise Bruenor needed to see thedrow ranger keep.

 He had been quiet through much of the fighting, even inpreparing for the war. Bruenor was quiet now, too, letting Drizztand the panther lead, finding his place among the friends wheneverbattle was joined.

 In the few moments of peace and rest, Bruenor saw a wary glance come his way more than once and knew that his friendsfeared he was brooding again, that his heart was not in the fight.Nothing could have been farther from the truth. Those minor skirmishes didn't matter much to Bruenor. He could kill a hundred—athousand!—drow soldiers, and his pain and anger would not relent. If he could get to the priestess behind it all, though, chop her downand decapitate the drow invading force ...

 Bruenor might know peace.

 The eighth king of Mithril Hall was not brooding. He was biding his time and his energy, coming to a slow boil. He was waiting for the moment when revenge would be most sweet.

 *  *   *   *   *

 Baenre's group, the giant glabrezu in tow, had just begun moving again, the matron mother guiding them in the direction her scrying had indicated, when Methil telepathically informed her that matrons Auro'pol and Zeerith had been continually entertainingthoughts of her demise. If Zeerith couldn't find a way through

 Mithril Hall's lower door, she would simply organize a withdrawal. Even now, Auro'pol was considering the potential for swinging thewhole army about and leaving Matron Baenre dead behind them,according to Methil.

 Do they plot against me?Baenre wanted to know.

 No, Methil honestly replied,but if you are killed, they will bethrilled to turn back for Menzoberranzan without you, that a new hierarchy might arise.

 In truth, Methil's information was not unexpected. One did nothave to read minds to see the discomfort and quiet rage on the facesof the matron mothers of Menzoberranzan's fourth and fifth houses.Besides, Baenre had suffered such hatred from her lessers, evenfrom supposed allies such as Mez'Barris Armgo, even from her owndaughters, for all her long life. That was an expected cost of beingthe first matron mother of chaotic and jealous Menzoberranzan, acity continually at war with itself.

 Auro'pol's thoughts were to be expected, but the confirmationfrom the illithid outraged the already nervous Matron Baenre. In hertwisted mind, this was no ordinary war, after all. This was the willof Lloth, as Baenre was the Spider Queen's agent. This was the pinnacle of Matron Baenre's power, the height of Lloth-given glory. How dare Auro'pol and Zeerith entertain such blasphemousthoughts? the first matron mother fumed.

 She snapped an angry glare over Auro'pol, who simply snortedand looked away—possibly the very worst thing she could havedone.

 Baenre issued telepathic orders to Methil, who in turn relayedthem to the glabrezu. The driftdisks, side by side, were just following Baenre's daughters around a bend in the tunnel when great pincers closed about Auro'pol's slender waist and yanked her from her driftdisk, the powerful glabrezu easily holding her in midair.

 "What is this?" Auro'pol demanded, squirming to no avail.

 "You wish me dead," Baenre answered.

 Quenthel and Bladen'Kerst rushed back to their mother's side,and both were stunned that Baenre had openly moved againstAuro'pol.

 "She wishes me dead," Baenre informed her daughters. "Sheand Zeerith believe Menzoberranzan would be a better place without Matron Baenre. "

 Auro'pol looked to the illithid, obviously the one who had betrayed her. Baenre's daughters, who had entertained similartreasonous thoughts on more than one occasion during this long,troublesome march, looked to Methil as well.

 "Matron Auro'pol bears witness to your glory," Quenthel putin. "She will witness the death of the renegade and will know thatLloth is with us. "

 Auro'pol's features calmed at that statement, and she squirmed again, trying to loosen the tanar'ri's viselike grip.

 Baenre eyed her adversary dangerously, and Auro'pol, cocky tothe end, matched the intensity of her stare. Quenthel was right,Auro'pol believed. Baenre needed her to bear witness. Bringing her into line behind the war would solidify Zeerith's loyalty as well, sothe drow army would be much stronger. Baenre was a wicked oldthing, but she had always been a calculating one, not ready to sacrifice an inch of power for the sake of emotional satisfaction. WitnessGandalug Battlehammer, still alive, though Baenre certainly wouldhave enjoyed tearing the heart from his chest many times during the long centuries of his imprisonment.

 "Matron Zeerith will be glad to hear of Drizzt Do'Urden'sdeath," Auro'pol said, and lowered her eyes respectfully. The submissive gesture would suffice, she believed.

 "The head of Drizzt Do'Urden will be all the proof MatronZeerith requires," Baenre replied.

 Auro'pol's gaze shot up, and Baenre's daughters, too, lookedupon their surprising mother.

 Baenre ignored them all. She sent a message to Methil, whoagain relayed it to the glabrezu, and the great pincers began tosqueeze about Auro'pol's waist.

 "You cannot do this!" Auro'pol objected, gasping for everyword. "Lloth is with me! You weaken your own campaign!"

 Quenthel wholeheartedly agreed, but kept silent, realizing theglabrezu still had an empty pincer.

 "You cannot do this!" Auro'pol shrieked. "Zeerith will ..." Her words were lost to pain.

 "Drizzt Do'Urden killed you before I killed Drizzt Do'Urden," Matron Baenre explained to Auro'pol. "Perfectly believable, and itmakes the renegade's death all the sweeter." Baenre nodded to theglabrezu, and the pincers closed, tearing through flesh and bone.

 Quenthel looked away; wicked Bladen'Kerst watched the spectacle with a wide smile.

 Auro'pol tried to call out once more, tried to hurl a dying curseBaenre's way, but her backbone snapped and all her strength washed away. The pincers snapped shut, and Auro'pol Dyrr's bodyfell apart to the floor.

 Bladen'Kerst cried out in glee, thrilled by her mother's displayof control and power. Quenthel, though, was outraged. Baenre hadstepped over a dangerous line. She had killed a matron mother, andhad done so to the detriment of the march to Mithril Hall, purely forpersonal gain. Wholeheartedly devoted to Lloth, Quenthel could not abide such stupidity, and her thoughts were similar indeed to those that had gotten Auro'pol Dyrr chopped in half.

 Quenthel snapped a dangerous glare over Methil, realizing theillithid was reading her thoughts. Would Methil betray her next?

 She narrowed her thoughts into a tight focus.It is not Lloth'swill!her mind screamed at Methil.No longer is the Spider Queenbehind my mother's actions.

 That notion held more implications for Methil, the illithid emissary to Menzoberranzan, not to Matron Baenre, than Quenthelcould guess, and her relief was great indeed when Methil did notbetray her.

 *****

 Guenhwyvar's ears flattened, and Drizzt, too, thought he heard a slight, distant scream. They had seen no one, enemies or friends,for several hours, and the ranger believed that any group of dark elves they now encountered would likely include the high priestessleading the army.

 He motioned for the others to move with all caution, and the small band crept along, Guenhwyvar leading the way. Drizzt fellinto his Underdark instincts now. He was the hunter again, the survivor who had lived alone for a decade in the wilds of the Under-dark. He looked back at Bruenor, Regis, and Catti-brie often, for, though they were moving with all the stealth they could manage,they sounded like a marching army of armored soldiers to Drizzt'skeen ears. That worried the drow, for he knew their enemies wouldbe far quieter. He considered going a long way ahead with Guen-

 hwyvar, taking up the hunt alone.

 It was a passing thought. These were his friends, and no onecould ever ask for finer allies.

 They slipped down a narrow, unremarkable tunnel and into achamber that opened wide to the left and right, though the smoothwall directly opposite the tunnel was not far away. The ceiling herewas higher than in the tunnel, but stalactites hung down in severalareas, nearly to the floor in many places.

 Guenhwyvar's ears flattened again, and the panther paused atthe entrance. Drizzt came beside her and felt the same tinglingsensation.

 The enemy was near, very near. That warrior instinct, beyondthe normal senses, told the drow ranger the enemy was practicallyupon them. He signaled back to the three trailing, then he and the panther moved slowly and cautiously into the chamber, along thewall to the right.

 Catti-brie came to the entrance next and fell to one knee, bending back her bow. Her eyes, aided by the Cat's Eye circlet, whichmade even the darkest tunnels seem bathed in bright starlight,scanned the chamber, searching among the stalactite clusters.

 Bruenor was soon beside her, and Regis came past her on theleft. The halfling spotted a cubby a few feet along the wall. Hepointed to himself, then to the cubby, and he inched off toward thespot.

 A green light appeared on the wall opposite the door, stealingthe darkness. It spiraled out, opening a hole in the wall, and MatronBaenre floated through, her daughters and their prisoner coming inbehind her, along with the illithid.

 Drizzt recognized the withered old drow and realized his worstfears, knew immediately that he and his friends were badly over matched. He thought to go straight for Baenre, but realized that he and Guenhwyvar were not alone on this side of the chamber. Fromthe corner of his wary eye Drizzt caught some movement up among the stalactites.

 Catti-brie fired a silver-streaking arrow, practically point-blank. The arrow exploded into a shower of multicolored, harmless sparks,unable to penetrate the first matron mother's magical shields.

 Regis went into the cubby then and cried out in sudden pain asa ward exploded. Electricity sparked about the halfling, sending

 him jerking this way and that, then dropping him to the floor, hiscurly brown hair standing straight on end.

 Guenhwyvar sprang to the right, burying a drow soldier as shefloated down from the stalactites. Drizzt again considered goingstraight for Baenre, but found himself suddenly engaged as threemore elite Baenre guards rushed out of hiding to surround him.Drizzt shook his head in denial. Surprise now worked against himand his friends, not for them. The enemy had expected them, heknew, had hunted them even as they had hunted the enemy. Andthis was Matron Baenre herself!

 "Run!" Drizzt cried to his friends. "Flee this place!"

 Chapter 29

 KING AGAINST QUEEN

 The long night drifted into morning, with the dark elvesonce again claiming the upper hand in the battle forKeeper's Dale. Berg'inyon's assessment of the futility ofthe defense, even with the dwarven and svirfneblinreinforcements, seemed correct as the drow ranks graduallyengulfed the svirfnebli, then pushed the line in the east back towardthe wall once more.

 But then it happened.

 After an entire night of fighting, after hours of shaping thebattle, holding back the wizards, using the lizard riders at precise moments and never fully committing them to the conflict, all thebest laid plans of the powerful drow force fell apart.

 The rim of the mountains east of Keeper's Dale brightened, asilvery edge that signaled the coming dawn. For the drow and theother monsters of the Underdark, that was no small event.

 One drow wizard, intent on a lightning bolt that would defeatthe nearest enemies, interrupted his spell and enacted a globe ofdarkness instead, aiming it at the tip of the sun as it peeked over the horizon, thinking to blot out the light. The spell went off and

 did nothing more than a put a black dot in the air a long way off,and as the wizard squinted against the glare, wondering what hemight try next, those defenders closest charged in and cut himdown.

 Another drow battling a dwarf had his opponent all but beaten.So intent was he on the kill that he hardly noticed the comingdawn—until the tip of the sun broke the horizon, sending a line oflight, a line of agony, to sensitive drow eyes. Blinded and horrified,the dark elf whipped his weapons in a frenzy, but he never got closeto hitting the mark.

 Then he felt a hot explosion across his ribs.

 All these dark elves had seen things in the normal spectrum oflight before, but not so clearly, not in such intense light, not with colorsso rich and vivid. They had heard of the terrible sunshine—Berg'inyonhad witnessed a dawn many years before, had watched it over hisshoulder as he and his drow raiding party fled back for the safe darkness of the lower tunnels. Now the weapon master and his charges didnot know what to expect. Would the infernal sun burn them as itblinded them? They had been told by their elders that it would not,but had been warned they would be more vulnerable in the sunlight,that their enemies would be bolstered by the brightness.

 Berg'inyon called his forces into tight battle formations andtried to regroup. They could still win, the weapon master knew,though this latest development would cost many drow lives.Dark elves could fight blindly, but what Berg'inyon feared herewas more than a loss of vision. It was a loss of heart. The raysslanting down from the mountains were beyond his and histroops' experience. And as frightening as it had been to walkunder the canopy of unreachable stars, this event, this sunrise,was purely terrifying.

 Berg'inyon quickly conferred with his wizards, tried to see if therewas some way they could counteract the dawn. What he learnedinstead distressed him as much as the infernal light. The drow wizardsin Keeper's Dale had eyes also in other places, and from those far-seeing mages came the initial whispers that dark elves were deserting inthe lower tunnels, that those drow who had been stopped in the tunnels near the eastern door had retreated from Mithril Hall and had fledto the deeper passages on the eastern side of Fourthpeak. Berg'inyon understood that information easily enough; those drow were already

 on the trails leading back to Menzoberranzan.

 Berg'inyon could not ignore the reports' implications. Anyalliance between dark elves was tentative, and the weapon mastercould only guess at how widespread the desertion might be.Despite the dawn, Berg'inyon believed his force would win inKeeper's Dale and would breach the western door, but suddenly hehad to wonder what they would find in Mithril Hall once they gotthere.

 Matron Baenre and their allies? King Bruenor and the renegade, Drizzt, and a host of dwarves ready to fight? The thought did not sitwell with the worried weapon master.

 Thus, it was not greater numbers that won the day in Keeper'sDale. It was not the courage of Berkthgar or Besnell, or the ferocityof Belwar and his gnomes, or the wisdom of Stumpet Rakingclaw. Itwas the dawn and the distrust among the enemy ranks, the lack ofcohesion and the very real fear that supporting forces would notarrive, for every drow soldier, from Berg'inyon to the lowest commoner, understood that their allies would think nothing of leavingthem behind to be slaughtered.

 Berg'inyon Baenre was not questioned by any of his soldierswhen he gave the order to leave Keeper's Dale. The lizard riders,still more than three hundred strong, rode out to the rough terrain ofthe north, their sticky-footed mounts leaving enemies and alliesalike far behind.

 The very air of Keeper's Dale tingled from the tragedy and theexcitement, but the sounds of battle died away to an eerie stillness, shattered occasionally by a cry of agony. Berkthgar the Bold stoodtall and firm, with Stumpet Rakingclaw and Terrien Doucard, thenew leader of the Knights in Silver, flanking him, and their victori ous soldiers waiting, tensed, behind them.

 Ten feet away, Belwar Dissengulp stood point for the depletedsvirfneblin ranks. The most honored burrow warden held his strongarms out before him, cradling the body of noble Firble, one of many svirfnebli who had died this day, so far from, but in defense of, theirhome.

 They did not know what to make of each other, this almost-seven-foot barbarian, and the gnome who was barely half his height.They could not talk to each other, and had no comprehensible signsof friendship to offer.

  

 They found their only common ground among the bodies ofhated enemies and beloved friends, piled thick in Keeper's Dale.

 * *  * * *

 Faerie fire erupted along Drizzt's arms and legs, outlining himas a better target. He countered by dropping a globe of darknessover himself, an attempt to steal the enemy's advantage of three-to- one odds.

 Out snapped the ranger's scimitars, and he felt a strange urgefrom one, not from Twinkle, but from the other blade, the one Drizzthad found in the lair of the dragon Dracos Icingdeath, the blade thathad been forged as a bane to creatures of fire.

 The scimitar was hungry; Drizzt had not felt such an urge fromit since ...

 He parried the first attack and groaned, remembering the othertime his scimitar had revealed its hunger, when he had battled the balor Errtu. Drizzt knew what this meant.

 Baenre had brought friends.

 *****

 Catti-brie fired another arrow, straight at the withered oldmatron mother's laughing visage. Again the enchanted arrowmerely erupted into a pretty display of useless sparks. The youngwoman turned to flee, as Drizzt had ordered. She grabbed herfather, meaning to pull him along.

 Bruenor wouldn't budge. He looked to Baenre and knew shewas the source. He looked at Baenre and convinced himself that shehad personally killed his boy. Then Bruenor looked past Baenre, to the old dwarf. Somehow Bruenor knew that dwarf. In his heart, theeighth king of Mithril Hall recognized the patron of his clan, thoughhe could not consciously make the connection.

 "Run!" Catti-brie yelled at him, taking him temporarily from histhoughts. Bruenor glanced at her, then looked behind, back downthe tunnel.

 He heard fighting in the distance, from somewhere behindthem.

 Quenthel's spell went off then, and a wall of fire sprang up in

 the narrow tunnel, cutting off retreat. That didn't bother determinedBruenor much, not now. He shrugged himself free of Catti-brie'shold and turned back to face Baenre—in his own mind, to face theevil dark elf who had killed his boy.

 He took a step forward.

 Baenre laughed at him.

 *  *  *  *  *

 Drizzt parried and struck, then, using the cover of the darknessglobe, quick-stepped to the side, too quickly for the dark elf coming in at his back to realize the shift. She bored in and struck hard, hitting the same drow that Drizzt had just wounded, finishing her.

 Hearing the movement, Drizzt came right back, both his bladeswhirling. To the female's credit, she registered the countering movein time to parry the first attack, the second and the third, even thefourth.

 But Drizzt did not relent. He knew his fury was a dangerousthing. There remained one more enemy in the darkness globe, and for Drizzt to press against a single opponent so forcefully left himvulnerable to the other. But the ranger knew, too, that his friendssorely needed him, that every moment he spent engaged with these warriors gave the powerful priestesses time to destroy them all.

 The ranger's fifth attack, a wide-arcing left, was cleanly pickedoff, as was the sixth, a straightforward right thrust. Drizzt pressedhard, would not relinquish the offensive. He knew, and the femaleknew, that her only hope would be in her lone remaining ally.

 A stifled scream, followed by the growl of a panther ended thathope.

 Drizzt's fury increased, and the female continued to fall back,stumbling now in the darkness, suddenly afraid. And in thatmoment of fear, she banged her head hard against a low stalactite, an obstacle her keen drow senses should have detected. She shookoff the blow and managed to straighten her posture, throwing one sword out in front to block another of the ranger's furious thrusts.

 She missed.

 Drizzt didn't, and Twinkle split the fine drow armor and dovedeep into the female's lung.

 Drizzt yanked the blade free and spun about.

 His darkness globe went away abruptly, dispelled by the magicof the waiting tanar'ri.

 *****

 Bruenor took another step, then broke into a run. Catti-briescreamed, thinking him dead, as a line of fire came down on him.

 Furious, frustrated, the young woman fired her bow again, andmore harmless sparks exploded in the air. Through the tears of outrage that welled in her blue eyes she hardly noticed that Bruenorhad shrugged off the stinging hit and broke into a full charge again.

 Bladen'Kerst stopped the dwarf, enacting a spell that surrounded Bruenor in a huge block of magical, translucent goo. Bruenor continued to move, but so slowly as to be barely perceptible,while the three drow priestesses laughed at him.

 Catti-brie fired again, and this time her arrow hit the block ofgoo, diving in several feet before stopping and hanging uselessly inplace above her father's head.

 Catti-brie looked to Bruenor, to Drizzt and the horrid, twelve-foot fiend that had appeared to the right, and to Regis, groaning andtrying to crawl at her left. She felt the heat as fires raged in the tunnel behind her, heard the continuing battle back, that way which shedid not understand.

 They needed a break, a turn in the tide, and Catti-brie thought she saw it then, and a moment of hope came to her. Finished with the kill,Guenhwyvar growled and crouched, ready to spring upon the tanar'ri.

 That moment of hope for Catti-brie was short-lived, for as thepanther sprang out, one of the priestesses casually tossed somethinginto the air, Guenhwyvar's way. The panther dissipated into graymist in midleap and was gone, sent back to the Astral Plane.

 "And so we die," Catti-brie whispered, for this enemy was toostrong. She dropped Taulmaril to the floor and drew Khazid'hea. Adeep breath steadied her, reminded her that she had run close todeath's door for most of her adult life. She looked to her father and prepared to charge, prepared to die.

 A shape wavered in front of the block of goo, between Catti-brieand Bruenor, and the look of determination on the young woman'sface turned to one of disgust as a gruesome, octopus-headed monstermaterialized on this side of the magical block, calmly walking—no,

  

 floating—toward her.

 Catti-brie raised her sword, then stopped, overwhelmed suddenly by a psionic blast, the likes of which she had never known.

 Methil waded in.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Berg'inyon's force pulled up and regrouped when they had cleared Keeper's Dale completely, had left the din of battle farbehind and were near the last run for the tunnels back to the Under-dark. Dimensional doors opened near the lizard rulers, and drowwizards (and those other dark elves fortunate enough to have beennear the wizards when the spells were enacted) stepped through.Stragglers, infantry drow and a scattering of humanoid allies, struggled to catch up, but they could not navigate the impossible terrainon this sign of the mountain. And they were of no concern to theBaenre weapon master.

 All those who had escaped Keeper's Dale looked to Berg'inyonfor guidance as the day brightened about them.

 "My mother was wrong," Berg'inyon said bluntly, an act ofblasphemy in drow society, where the word of any matron motherwas Lloth-given law.

 Not a drow pointed it out, though, or raised a word of disagreement. Berg'inyon motioned to the east, and the force lumbered on,into the rising sun, miserable and defeated.

 "The surface is for surface-dwellers," Berg'inyon remarked toone of his advisors when she walked her mount beside his. "I shallnever return. "

 "What of Drizzt Do'Urden?" the female asked, for it was nosecret that Matron Baenre wanted her son to slay the renegade.

 Berg'inyon laughed at her, for not once since he had witnessedDrizzt's exploits at the Academy had he entertained any serious thoughts of fighting the renegade.

 *****

 Drizzt could see little beyond the gigantic glabrezu, and thatspectacle was enough, for the ranger knew he was not prepared forsuch a foe, knew that the mighty creature would likely destroy him.

 Even if it didn't defeat him, the glabrezu would surely hold himup long enough for Matron Baenre to kill them all!

 Drizzt felt the savage hunger of his scimitar, a blade forged to kill such beasts, but he fought off the urge to charge, knew that hehad to find a way around those devilish pincers.

 He noted Guenhwyvar's futile leap and disappearance. Anotherally lost.

 The fight was over before it had begun, Drizzt realized. They hadkilled a couple of elite guards and nothing more. They had walkedheadlong into the pinnacle of Menzoberranzan's power, the mosthigh priestesses of the Spider Queen, and they had lost. Waves of guilt washed over Drizzt, but he dismissed them, refused to acceptthem. He had come out, and his friends had come beside him,because this had been Mithril Hall's only chance. Even if Drizzt hadknown that Matron Baenre herself was leading this march, he wouldhave come out here, and would not have denied Bruenor and Regisand Catti-brie the opportunity to accompany him.

 They had lost, but Drizzt meant to make their enemy hurt.

 "Fight on, demon spawn," he snarled at the glabrezu, and hefell into a crouch, waving his blades, eager to give his scimitar themeal it so greatly desired.

 The tanar'ri straightened and held out a curious metal coffer.

 Drizzt didn't wait for an explanation, and almost unintentionally destroyed the only chance he and his friends had, for as thetanar'ri moved to open the coffer, Drizzt, with the enchanted anklebracers speeding his rush, yelled and charged, right past the lowered pincers, thrusting his scimitar into the fiend's belly.

 He felt the surge of power as the scimitar fed.

 *****

 Catti-brie was too confused to strike, too overwhelmed to evencry out in protest as Methil came right up to her and the wretchedtentacles licked her face. Then, through the confusion, a single voice,the voice of Khazid'hea, her sword, called out in her head.

 Strike!

 She did, and though her aim was not perfect, Khazid'hea'swicked edge hit Methil on the shoulder, nearly severing the illithid's arm.

 Out of her daze, Catti-brie swept the tentacles from her facewith her free hand.

 Another psionic wave blasted her, crippling her once more,stealing her strength and buckling her legs. Before she went down,she saw the illithid jerk weirdly, then fall away, and saw Regis, staggering, his hair still dancing wildly. The halfling's mace was coveredin blood, and he fell sidelong, over the stumbling Methil.

 That would have been the end of the illithid, especially whenCatti-brie regained her senses enough to join in, except that Methilhad anticipated such a disaster and had stored enough psionicenergy to get out of the fight. Regis lifted his mace for anotherstrike, but felt himself sinking as the illithid dissipated beneath him.The halfling cried out in confusion, in terror, and swung anyway,but his mace clanged loudly as it hit only the empty stone floorbeneath him.

 *   *   *   *   *

 It all happened in a mere instant, a flicker of time in which poorBruenor had not gained an inch toward his taunting foes.

 The glabrezu, in pain greater than anything it had ever known,could have killed Drizzt then. Every instinct within the wicked creature urged it to snap this impertinent drow in half. Every instinctexcept one: the fear of Errtu's reprisal once the tanar'ri got back tothe Abyss—and with that vile scimitar chewing away at its belly, thetanar'ri knew it would soon make that trip.

 It wanted so much to snap Drizzt in half, but the fiend had beensent here for a different reason, and evil Errtu would accept noexplanations for failure. Growling at the renegade Do'Urden, takingpleasure only in the knowledge that Errtu would soon return topunish this one personally, the glabrezu reached across and toreopen the shielding coffer, producing the shining black sapphire.

 The hunger disappeared from Drizzt's scimitar. Suddenly, theranger's feet weren't moving so quickly.

 Across the Realms, the most poignant reminder of the Time ofTroubles were the areas known as dead zones, wherein all magicceased to exist. This sapphire contained within it the negativeenergy of such a zone, possessed the antimagic to steal magicalenergy, and not Drizzt's scimitars or his bracers, not Khazid'hea or

 the magic of the drow priestesses, could overcome that negativeforce.

 It happened for only an instant, for a consequence of revealingthat sapphire was the release of the summoned tanar'ri from theMaterial Plane, and the departing glabrezu took with it the sapphire.

 For only an instant, the fires stopped in the tunnel behind Catti-brie. For only an instant, the shackles binding Gandalug lost theirenchantment. For only an instant, the block of goo surroundingBruenor was no more.

 For only an instant, but that was long enough for Gandalug,teeming with centuries of rage, to tear his suddenly feeble shacklesapart, and for Bruenor to surge ahead, so that when the block of goo reappeared, he was beyond its influence, charging hard and screaming with all his strength.

 Matron Baenre had fallen unceremoniously to the floor, and herdriftdisk reappeared when magic returned, hovering above herhead.

 Gandalug launched a backhand punch to the left, smackingQuenthel in the face and knocking her back against the wall. Thenhe jumped to the right and caught Bladen'Kerst's five-headed snakewhip in his hand, taking more than one numbing bite.

 The old dwarf ignored the pain and pressed on, barreling overthe surprised Baenre daughter. He reached around her other shoulder and caught the handle of her whip in his free hand, then pulledthe thing tightly against her neck, strangling her with her own wicked weapon.

 They fell in a clinch.

 *****

 In all the Realms there was no creature more protected by magicthan Matron Baenre, no creature shielded from blows more effectively, not even a thick-scaled ancient dragon. But most of thosewards were gone now, taken from her in the moment of antimagic.And in all the Realms there was no creature more consumed by ragethan Bruenor Battlehammer, enraged at the sight of the old, tormented dwarf he knew he should recognize. Enraged at the realization that his friends, that his dear daughter, were dead, or soonwould be. Enraged at the withered drow priestess, in his mind the

 personification of the evil that had taken his boy.

 He chopped his axe straight overhead, the many-notched bladediving down, shattering the blue light of the driftdisk, blowing theenchantment into nothingness. Bruenor felt the burn as the blade hit one of the few remaining magical shields, energy instantly coursingup the weapon's head and handle, into the furious king.

 The axe went from green to orange to blue as it tore throughmagical defense after magical defense, rage pitted against powerful dweomers. Bruenor felt agony, but would admit none.

 The axe drove through the feeble arm that Baenre lifted to block,through Baenre's skull, through her jawbone and neck, and deepinto her frail chest.

 *   *  *  *   *

 Quenthel shook off Gandalug's heavy blow and instinctivelymoved for her sister. Then, suddenly, her mother was dead and thepriestess rushed back toward the wall instead, through the green- edged portal, back into the corridor beyond. She dropped some silvery dust as she passed through, enchanted dust that would dispelthe portal and make the wall smooth and solid once again.

 The stone spiraled in, fast transforming back into a solid barrier.

 Only Drizzt Do'Urden, moving with the speed of the enchantedanklets, got through that opening before it snapped shut.

 *****

 Jarlaxle and his lieutenants were not far away. They knew that agroup of wild dwarves and a wolfman had met Baenre's other eliteguards in the tunnels across the way, and that the dwarves and theirally had overwhelmed the dark elves and were fast bearing downon the chamber.

 From a high vantage point, looking out from a cubby on thetunnel behind that chamber, Jarlaxle knew the approaching band offurious dwarves had already missed the action. Quenthel's appearance, and Drizzt's right behind her, told the watching mercenary leader the conquest of Mithril Hall had come to an abrupt end.

 The lieutenant at Jarlaxle's side lifted a hand-crossbow towardDrizzt, and seemed to have a perfect opportunity, for Drizzt's focus

 was solely on the fleeing Baenre daughter. The ranger would never know what hit him.

 Jarlaxle grabbed the lieutenant's wrist and forced the armdown. Jarlaxle motioned to the tunnels behind, and he and hissomewhat confused, but ultimately loyal, band slipped silentlyaway.

 As they departed, Jarlaxle heard Quenthel's dying scream, a cryof "Sacrilege!" She was yelling out a denial, of course, in DrizztDo'Urden's—her killer's—face, but Jarlaxle realized she could justas easily, and just as accurately, have been referring to him.

 So be it.

 *****

 The dawn was bright but cold, and it grew colder still as Stumpet and Terrien Doucard, of the Knights in Silver, made their wayup the difficult side of Keeper's Dale, climbing hand over handalong the almost vertical wall.

 "Ye're certain?" Stumpet asked Terrien, a half-elf with lustrousbrown hair and features too fair to be dimmed by even the tragedyof the last night.

 The knight didn't bother to reply, other than with a quick nod,for Stumpet had asked the question more than a dozen times in thelast twenty minutes.

 "This is the right wall?" Stumpet asked, yet another of herredundant questions.

 Terrien nodded. "Close," he assured the dwarf.

 Stumpet came up on a small ledge and slid over, putting herback against the wall, her feet hanging over the two-hundred-footdrop to the valley floor. She felt she should be down there in the valley, helping tend to the many, many wounded, but if what theknight had told her was true, if Lady Alustriel of Silverymoon hadfallen up here, then this trip might be the most important task Stumpet Rakingclaw ever completed in her life.

 She heard Terrien struggling below her and bent over, reachingdown to hook the half-elf under the shoulder. Stumpet's powerfulmuscles corded, and she easily hoisted the slender knight over theledge, guiding him into position beside her against the wall. Boththe half-elf and the dwarf breathed heavily, puffs of steam filling the

 air before them.

 "We held the dale," Stumpet said cheerily, trying to coax theagonized expression from the half-elf's face.

 "Would the victory have been worth it if you had watched Bruenor Battlehammer die?" the half-elf replied, his teeth chattering a bitfrom the frigid air.

 "Ye're not for knowing that Alustriel died!" Stumpet shot back,and she pulled the pack from her back, fumbling about inside. Shehad wanted to wait a while before doing this, hopefully to get closer to the spot where Alustriel's chariot had reportedly gone down.

 She took out a small bowl shaped of silvery mithril and pulled abulging waterskin over her head.

 "It is probably frozen," the dejected half-elf remarked, indicating the skin.

 Stumpet snorted. Dwarven holy water didn't freeze, at leastnot the kind Stumpet had brewed, dropping in a little ninety-proofto sweeten the mix. She popped the cork from the waterskin andbegan a rhythmic chant as she poured the golden liquid into themithril bowl. She was lucky—she knew that—for though theimage her spells brought forth was fuzzy and brief, an area somedistance away, she knew this region, and knew where to find theindicated ledge.

 They started off immediately at a furious and reckless pace,Stumpet not even bothering to collect her bowl and skin. The half-elf slipped more than once, only to be caught by the wrist by Stum-pet's strong grasp, and more than once Stumpet found herselffalling, and only the quick hands of Terrien Doucard, deftly plantingpitons to secure the rope between them, saved her.

 Finally, they got to the ledge and found Alustriel lying still andcold. The only indication that her magical chariot had ever beenthere was a scorch mark where the thing had crashed, on the floor ofthe ledge and against the mountain wall. Not even debris remained,for the chariot had been wholly a creation of magic.

 The half-elf rushed to his fallen leader and gently cradled Alustriel's head in one arm. Stumpet whipped out a small mirror fromher belt pouch and stuck it in front of the lady's mouth.

 "She's alive!" the dwarf announced, tossing her pack to Terrien.The words seemed to ignite the half-elf. He gently laid Alustriel'shead to the ledge, then fumbled in the pack, tearing out several

 thick blankets, and wrapped his lady warmly, then began brisklyrubbing Alustriel's bare, cold hands. All the while, Stumpet calledupon her gods for spells of healing and warmth, and gave everyounce of her own energy to this wondrous leader of Silverymoon.

 Five minutes later, Lady Alustriel opened her beautiful eyes.She took a deep breath and shuddered, then whispered somethingneither Stumpet nor the knight could hear, so the half-elf leanedcloser, put his ear right up to her mouth.

 "Did we hold?"

 Terrien Doucard straightened and smiled widely. "Keeper'sDale is ours!" he announced, and Alustriel's eyes sparkled. Thenshe slept, peacefully, confident that this furiously working dwarvenpriestess would keep her warm and well, and she was confidentthat, whatever her own fate, the greater good had been served.

 For the good of all goodly folk.

 EPILOGUE

 Berg'inyon Baenre was not surprised to find Jarlaxle andthe soldiers of Bregan D'aerthe waiting for him farbelow the surface, far from Mithril Hall. As soon as hehad heard reports of desertion, Berg'inyon realized that the pragmatic mercenary was probably among those ranks of drowfleeing the war.

 Methil had informed Jarlaxle of Berg'inyon's approach, andthe mercenary leader was indeed surprised to find that Berg'inyon,the son of Matron Baenre, the weapon master of the first house,had also run off in desertion. The mercenary had figured thatBerg'inyon would fight his way into Mithril Hall and die as hismother had died.

 Stupidly.

 "The war is lost," Berg'inyon remarked. Unsure of himself, helooked to Methil, for he hadn't anticipated that the illithid would beout here, away from the matriarch. The illithid's obvious wounds,one arm hanging limply and a large hole on the side of his octopushead, grotesque brain matter oozing out, caught Berg'inyon offguard as well, for he never expected that anyone could catch up toMethil and harm him so.

 "Your mother is dead," Jarlaxle replied bluntly, drawing the

 young Baenre's attention from the wounded illithid. "As are yourtwo sisters and Auro'pol Dyrr. "

 Berg'inyon nodded, seeming hardly surprised.

 Jarlaxle wondered whether he should mention that MatronBaenre was the one who had murdered the latter. He held thethought in check, figuring he might be able to use that little bit ofinformation against Berg'inyon at a later time.

 "Matron Zeerith Q'Xorlarrin led the retreat from Mithril Hall'slower door," the mercenary went on.

 "And my own force caught up to those drow who tried, andfailed, to get in the eastern door," Berg'inyon added.

 "And you punished them?" Jarlaxle wanted to know, for he wasstill unsure of Berg'inyon's feelings about all of this, still unsure if heand his band were about to fight yet another battle down here in thetunnels.

 Berg'inyon scoffed at the notion of punishment, and Jarlaxlebreathed a little easier.

 Together, they marched on, back for the dark and more comfortable ways of Menzoberranzan. They linked with Zeerith and herforce soon after, and many other groups of dark elves andhumanoids fell into line as the days wore on. In all, more than twothousand drow, a fourth of them Baenre soldiers, had died in the assault on Mithril Hall, and twice that number of humanoid slaveshad been killed, most outside the mountain, on Fourthpeak's south-ernslopes and in Keeper's Dale. And a like number of humanoidshad run off after the battles, fleeing to the surface or down other corridors, taking their chances in the unknown world above or in thewild Underdark rather than return to the tortured life as a slave ofthe drow.

 Things had not gone as Matron Baenre had planned.

 Berg'inyon fell into line as the quiet force moved away, lettingZeerith control the procession.

 "Menzoberranzan will be many years in healing from the folly of Matron Baenre," Jarlaxle remarked to Berg'inyon later that day,when he came upon the young weapon master alone in a side chamber as the army camped in a region of broken caves and short, con necting tunnels.

 Berg'inyon didn't disagree with the statement and showed noanger at all. He understood the truth of Jarlaxle's words, and

 knew that much trouble would befall House Baenre in the daysahead. Matron Zeerith was outraged, and Mez'Barris Armgo and all the other matron mothers would be, too, when they learned ofthe disaster.

 "The offer remains," Jarlaxle said, and he left the chamber, leftBerg'inyon alone with his thoughts.

 House Baenre would likely survive, Berg'inyon believed. Triel would assume its rulership, and, though they had lost five hundredskilled soldiers, nearly two thousand remained, including morethan three hundred of the famed lizard riders. Matron Baenre hadbuilt a huge network of allies outside the house as well, and even this disaster, and the death of Baenre, would not likely topple thefirst house.

 There would indeed be trouble, though. Matron Baenre was thesolidifying force. What might House Baenre expect from troublesome Gromph with her gone?

 And what of Triel? Berg'inyon wondered. Where would he fitinto his sister's designs? Now she would be free to raise children ofher own and bring them into power. The first son born to her wouldeither be groomed as the house wizard or as a candidate forBerg'inyon's position as weapon master.

 How long, then, did Berg'inyon have? Fifty years? A hundred?Not long in the life span of a dark elf.

 Berg'inyon looked to the archway, to the back of the departingmercenary, and considered carefully Jarlaxle's offer for him to joinBregan D'aerthe.

 *   *   *   *   *

 Mithril Hall was a place of mixed emotions: tears for the deadand cheers for the victory. All mourned Besnell and Firble, RegweldHarpell and so many others who had died valiantly. And all cheeredfor King Bruenor and his mighty friends, for Berkthgar the Bold, for Lady Alustriel, still nursing her grievous wounds, and for StumpetRakingclaw, hero of both the Undercity and Keeper's Dale.

 And all cheered most of all for Gandalug Battlehammer, thepatron of Clan Battlehammer, returned from the grave, it seemed.How strange it was for Bruenor to face his own ancestor, to see thefirst bust in the Hall of Kings come to life!

 The two dwarves sat side by side in the throne room on theupper levels of the dwarven complex, flanked by Alustriel (withStumpet kneeling beside the Lady of Silverymoon's chair, naggingher to rest!) on the right and Berkthgar on the left.

 The celebration was general throughout the dwarven complex,from the Undercity to the throne room, a time of gathering, and ofparting, a time when Belwar Dissengulp and Bruenor Battlehammerfinally met. Through the magic of Alustriel, an enchantment thatsorted out the language problems, the two were able to forge analliance between Blingdenstone and Mithril Hall that would live forcenturies, and they were able to swap tales of their common drowfriend, particularly when Drizzt was wandering about, just farenough away to realize they were talking about him.

 "It's the damned cat that bothers me," Bruenor huffed on oneoccasion, loud enough so that Drizzt would hear.

 The drow sauntered over, put a foot on the raised dais that heldthe thrones, and leaned forward on his knee, very close to Belwar."Guenhwyvar humbles Bruenor," Drizzt said in the Drow tongue, alanguage Belwar somewhat understood, but which was not translated by Alustriel's spell for Bruenor. "She often uses the dwarf forbedding. "

 Bruenor, knowing they were talking about him, but unable to understand a word, hooted in protest—and protested louder whenGandalug, who also knew a bit of the Drow tongue, joined in theconversation and the mirth.

 "But suren the cat's not fer using me son's son's son's son'sson's son's son's 'ead fer a piller!" the old dwarf howled. "Too hardit be. Too, too!"

 "By Moradin, I should've left with the damned dark elves," adefeated Bruenor grumbled.

 That notion sobered old Gandalug, took the cheer from his facein the blink of an eye.

 Such was the celebration in Mithril Hall, a time of strong emotions, both good and bad.

 Catti-brie watched it all from the side, feeling removed andstrangely out of place. Surely she was thrilled at the victory,intrigued by the svirfnebli, whom she had met once before, andeven more intrigued that the patron of her father's clan had beenmiraculously returned to the dwarven complex he had founded.

 Along with those exciting feelings, though, the young woman felta sense of completion. The drow threat to Mithril Hallwas endedthis time, and new and stronger alliances would be forgedbetween Mithril Hall and all its neighbors, even Nesme. Bruenor and Berkthgar seemed old friends now—Bruenor had even hintedon several occasions that he might be willing to let the barbarian wield Aegis-fang.

 Catti-brie hoped that would not come to pass, and didn't thinkit would. Bruenor had hinted at the generous offer mostly becausehe knew it wouldn't really cost him anything, Catti-brie suspected.After Berkthgar's exploits in Keeper's Dale, his own weapon,Bankenfuere, was well on its way as a legend among the warriors ofSettlestone.

 No matter what Berkthgar's exploits might be, Bankenfuerewould never rival Aegis-fang, in Catti-brie's mind.

 Though she was quiet and reflective, Catti-brie was not grim,not maudlin. Like everyone else in Mithril Hall, she had lost somefriends in the war. But like everyone else, she was battle-hardened, accepting the ways of the world and able to see thegreater good that had come from the battle. She laughed when agroup of svirfnebli practically pulled out what little hair they had,so frustrated were they in trying to teach a group of drunkendwarves how to hear vibrations in the stone. She laughed louderwhen Regis bopped into the throne room, pounds of food tuckedunder each arm and already so stuffed that the buttons on hiswaistcoat were near bursting.

 And she laughed loudest of all when Bidderdoo Harpell racedpast her, Thibbledorf Pwent scrambling on his knees behind thewizard, begging Bidderdoo to bite him!

 But there remained a reflective solitude behind that laughter,that nagging sense of completion that didn't sit well on the shoulders of a woman who had just begun to open her eyes to the wideworld.

 *   *  *  *   *

 In the smoky filth of the Abyss, the balor Errtu held his breathas the shapely drow, the delicate disaster, approached his mushroom throne.

 Errtu didn't know what to expect from Lloth; they had both witnessed the disaster.

 The balor watched as the drow came through the mist, the prisoner, the promised gift, in tow. She was smiling, but, on the face ofthe Lady of Chaos, one could never hope to guess what that meant.

 Errtu sat tall and proud, confident he had done as instructed. If Lloth tried to blame him for the disaster, he would argue, he determined, though if she had somehow found out about the antimagicstone he had sent along with the glabrezu ...

 "You have brought my payment?" the balor boomed, trying tosound imposing.

 "Of course, Errtu," the Spider Queen replied.

 Errtu cocked his tremendous, horned head. There seemed nodeception in either her tone or her movements as she pushed theprisoner toward the gigantic, seated balor.

 "You seem pleased," Errtu dared to remark.

 Lloth's smile nearly took in her ears, and then Errtu understood.She was pleased! The old wretch, the most wicked of the wicked,was glad of the outcome. Matron Baenre was gone, as was all orderin Menzoberranzan. The drow city would know its greatest chaosnow, thrilling interhouse warfare and a veritable spiderweb ofintrigue, layer upon layer of lies and treachery, through each of theruling houses.

 "You knew this would happen from the beginning!" the baloraccused.

 Lloth laughed aloud. "I did not anticipate the outcome," sheassured Errtu. "I did not know Errtu would be so resourceful in protecting the one who might end his banishment. "

 The balor's eyes widened, and his great leathery wings foldedclose about him, a symbolic, if ineffective, movement of defense.

 "Fear not, my fiendish ally," Lloth cooed. "I will give you achance to redeem yourself in my eyes. "

 Errtu growled low. What favor did the Spider Queen now wantfrom him?

 "I will be busy these next decades, I fear," Lloth went on, "intrying to end the confusion in Menzoberranzan. "

 Errtu scoffed. "Never would you desire such a thing," hereplied.

 "I will be busy watching the confusion then," Lloth was willing

 to admit. Almost as an afterthought, she added, "And watchingwhat it is you must do for me. "

 Again came that demonic growl.

 "When you are free, Errtu," Lloth said evenly, "when you haveDrizzt Do'Urden entangled in the tongs of your merciless whip, dokill him slowly, painfully, that I might hear his every cry!" The Spider Queen swept hers arms up then and disappeared with a flurryof crackling black energy.

 Errtu's lip curled up in an evil smile. He looked to the pitifulprisoner, the key to breaking the will and the heart of DrizztDo'Urden. Sometimes, it seemed, the Spider Queen did not ask formuch.

 *   *   *  *  *

 It had been two weeks since the victory, and in Mithril Hall thecelebration continued. Many had left—first the two remaining menfrom Nesme and the Longriders, along with Harkle and Bella donDelRoy (though Pwent finally convinced Bidderdoo to stick aroundfor a while). Then Alustriel and her remaining Knights in Silver,seventy-five warriors, began their journey back to Silverymoon withtheir heads held high, the lady ready to meet the challenges of herpolitical rivals head-on, confident that she had done right in comingto King Bruenor's aid.

 The svirfnebli were in no hurry to leave, though, enjoying thecompany of Clan Battlehammer, and the men of Settlestone vowed to stay until the last of Mithril Hall's mead was drained away.

 Far down the mountain from the dwarven complex, on a cold,windy plain, Catti-brie sat atop a fine roan—one of the horses thathad belonged to a slain Silverymoon knight. She sat quietly andconfidently, but the sting in her heart as she looked up to MithrilHall was no less acute. Her eyes scanned the trails to the rocky exit from the mountains, and she smiled, not surprised, in seeing a rider coming down.

 "I knew ye'd follow me down here," she said to DrizztDo'Urden when the ranger approached.

 "We all have our place," Drizzt replied.

 "And mine's not now in Mithril Hall," Catti-brie said sternly."Ye'll not change me mind!"

 Drizzt paused for a long while, studying the determined youngwoman. "You've talked with Bruenor?" he asked.

 "Of course," Catti-brie retorted. "Ye think I'd leave me father's house without his blessings?"

 "Blessings he gave grudgingly, no doubt," Drizzt remarked.

 Catti-brie straightened in her saddle and locked her jaw firmly. "Bruenor's got much to do," she said. "And he's got Regis and yerself..." She paused and held that thought, noticing the heavy packstrapped behind Drizzt's saddle. "And Gandalug and Berkthgarbeside him," she finished. "They've not even figured which is torule and which is to watch, though I'm thinking Gandalug's to letBruenor remain king. "

 "That would be the wiser course," Drizzt agreed.

 A long moment of silence passed between them.

 "Berkthgar talks of leaving," Drizzt said suddenly, "of returningto Icewind Dale and the ancient ways of his people. "

 Catti-brie nodded. She had heard such rumors.

 Again came that uncomfortable silence. Catti-brie finally turned her eyes away from the drow, thinking he was judging her, thinking,in her moment of doubt, that she was being a terrible daughter toBruenor, terrible and selfish. "Me father didn't try to stop me," sheblurted with a tone of finality, "and yerself cannot!"

 "I never said I came out to try to stop you," Drizzt calmlyreplied.

 Catti-brie paused, not really surprised. When she had first toldBruenor she was leaving, that she had to go out from Mithril Hall for a while and witness the wonders of the world, the crusty dwarfhad bellowed so loudly that Catti-brie thought the stone walls would tumble in on both of them.

 They had met again two days later, when Bruenor was not sofull of dwarven holy water, and, to Catti-brie's surprise and relief,her father was much more reasonable. He understood her heart, he had assured her, though his gruff voice cracked as he delivered the words, and he realized she had to follow it, had to go off and learn who she was and where she fit in the world. Catti-brie had thoughtthe words uncharacteristically understanding and philosophical ofBruenor, and now, facing Drizzt, she was certain of their source.Now she knew who Bruenor had spoken to between their meetings.

 "He sent ye," she accused Drizzt.

 "You were leaving and so was I," Drizzt replied casually.

 "I just could not spend the rest o' me days in the tunnels," Catti-brie said, suddenly feeling as if she had to explain herself, revealingthe guilt that had weighed heavily on her since herdecision to leavehome. She looked all around, her eyes scanning the distant horizon"There's just so much more for me. I'm knowing that in me heart.I've known it since Wulfgar ... "

 She paused and sighed and looked to Drizzt helplessly.

 "And more for me," the drow said with a mischievous grin,"much more. "

 Catti-brie glanced back over her shoulder, back to the west,where the sun was already beginning its descent.

 "The days are short," she remarked, "and the road is long. "

 "Only as long as you make it," Drizzt said to her, drawing hergaze back to him. "And the days are only as short as you allow themto be. "

 Catti-brie eyed him curiously, not understanding that last statement.

 Drizzt was grinning widely as he explained, as full of anticipation as was Catti-brie. "A friend of mine, a blind old ranger, once told me that if you ride hard and fast enough to the west, the sunwill never set for you. "

 By the time he had finished the statement, Catti-brie hadwheeled her roan and was in full gallop across the frozen plaintoward the west, toward Nesme and Longsaddle beyond that,toward mighty Waterdeep and the Sword Coast. She bent low in thesaddle, her mount running hard, her cloak billowing and snappingin the wind behind her, her thick auburn hair flying wildly.

 Drizzt opened a belt pouch and looked at the onyx panther figurine. No one could ask for better companions, he mused, and with a final look to the mountains, to Mithril Hall, where his friend wasking, the ranger kicked his stallion into a gallop and chased afterCatti-brie.

 To the west and the adventures of the wide world.