“A few less Shadovar to trouble the world,” Dahlia said with grim satisfaction.

“And a few more will follow,” Entreri added. “They will return. They want the sword.”

“Perhaps next time, we will see them before they see us,” said Drizzt, and that brought a puzzled look to both his companions.

“We did,” Entreri said.

“I mean, before they are even on our trail,” Drizzt said. “That we might learn their point of entry.”

Still the two looked confused.

“A shadow gate,” the drow explained. “I almost got to it, but it dissipated.”

“A door to the Shadowfell?” Entreri asked skeptically. “Why would . . . ?”

Drizzt held up his hand, in no mood to explain.

Dahlia came over to him, then, and gently touched the wound in his side. “Come,” she said, taking his hand. “Let’s tend to those.”

“Wizards,” Entreri muttered, shaking his head.

They set their camp not far from that point. Drizzt and Dahlia sat off to the side, across the low-burning, shielded fire from Entreri, and behind some brush as well. The drow was stripped to the waist, Dahlia tending his several wounds with a cloth dampened with water and a healing salve.

Soon enough, the stars glittering above them, Entreri snoring from across the way, her touches became more intimate and suggestive.

Drizzt looked into her pretty eyes, trying to measure her emotions. She still wore her hair in the soft shoulder cut, her face still clear of the woad. Even in the fight, she had remained in this guise.

But even wearing her softer appearance, Drizzt recognized something in his heart, and his eyes only confirmed it. She was not looking at him with the warmth of love, but with the heat of passion.

Would she have been any less aggressive with any attractive partner, he wondered? Did it matter that it was him? Was there more of a bond here than the satisfaction of physical needs?

He felt himself a plaything at that moment. That bothered him, but what bothered him even more was that he felt Dahlia a plaything, as well, as if he was using her for her obvious charms.

She bit him on the neck then, lightly, then leaned back and stared at him, smiling mischievously. He noticed that her white shirt was unfastened, quite low and revealing.

Drizzt pushed her out to arms’ length. He tried to say something, to explain his feelings, his confusion and fears. But all he could do was shake his head.

Dahlia looked at him curiously at first, then with disbelief as she pulled back from his grasp with a clear edge of anger.

“When I caught up to you outside of Neverwinter, you were engaged in a serious conversation with Entreri,” Drizzt said, glad to move along to some other issue, one likely related to his emotions, but still removed from the immediate sense of rejection. “What were you talking about?”

Dahlia stepped back even farther, out of his reach, staring at him incredulously, and asked, “What?” sounding as if she had just been slapped.

Drizzt swallowed hard but knew that he had to press on. “I came out from Neverwinter to your camp, and from the brush, witnessed your discussion with Entreri.”

“You were spying on us? Did you expect me to throw him on the ground and ravish him?”

“No,” the exasperated drow replied, his thoughts spinning as he tried to figure out how to better communicate the turmoil within him.

“I didn’t even want him along!” Dahlia snapped at him, harshly and loudly, and across the way, Entreri’s snoring broke cadence as if her words had disturbed his slumber. She paused for just a moment, waiting for the rhythmic breathing to resume, but never let her glower leave her face. “You invited him, and then accepted him back again after he deserted us—and for all we know, he betrayed us in his time away.”

Drizzt shook his head.

“How do you know?” Dahlia asked skeptically. “He was gone and suddenly we were found.”

“And he returned to aid us when we needed it,” Drizzt reminded.

“Or he set the whole thing up so he could become a hero to us.”

She was deflecting him, he realized, and he shook his head forcefully and waved his arms before him, at last silencing her. “We were beaten by Alegni on the bridge,” he stated flatly. “It was not deception that brought Artemis Entreri back to us, but his own hatred of Herzgo Alegni.”

His mention of the tiefling, his reminder of the tiefling’s demise, seemed to calm Dahlia down a bit.

She looked at Drizzt slyly, as if it had been her intent all along to bring him around in this circle. “Now you defend him?” she asked.

The simple question made Drizzt’s initial statements—accusations?—toward Dahlia seem rather idiotic.

He brought his hands up to his face and took a deep and slow, steadying breath, feeling very much off guard. Entreri’s snoring distracted him. It occurred to him that if he crossed the camp and hacked the assassin to death in his sleep all of his concerns here would be resolved.

Yes, a dozen strides and a single swing, and he and Dahlia could go along their way without a worry, without the need to return to Gauntlgrym, the tomb of Drizzt’s dearest friend, a place he did not wish to go.

A single swing—perhaps with Entreri’s own sword!

He shook the thoughts away and refocused on Dahlia, to see her refastening her shirt, her expression showing many shifting emotions, but surely nothing amorous.

“You had a serious conversation with a very dangerous man,” Drizzt pressed anyway. “I would like to know about it.”

“Be very careful not to press too far into places that are none of your concern,” Dahlia replied, and walked away.

Drizzt stood there in the dark for a long while, watching Dahlia as she moved near to the low fire and settled, half-sitting, half-reclining against a log. She lowered her wide-brimmed black hat over her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest.

What was it between them, Drizzt wondered? When they entwined, was it lovemaking or recreation?

And if it was not lovemaking, then why did he care so much about her seemingly intimate conversation with Artemis Entreri?

Because it was Entreri?

Perhaps Drizzt’s nostalgia for what once had been could carry him only so far in his dealings with the assassin. Perhaps their long battle, the taking of Regis’s fingers by Entreri’s dagger so long ago, the many innocents Drizzt knew Entreri had wounded and killed . . . perhaps all of that dark past of Artemis Entreri was now invading on that wistful nostalgia, reminding Drizzt that, while his personal circle might have been greater in the time that had been a hundred years before, the world at large was not so kind a place.

Once again, it occurred to Drizzt that he might be doing an act of great good for the world if he crossed the encampment and put an end to Artemis Entreri.

Once again, his desire for such violence surprised him and revolted him.

But there it remained, hovering within his consciousness.

Chapter 15: Hope from the Days of Old

The ball of living fire charged at the trio of goblins, knocking one of the creatures flat and rolling over him, muffling his screams with the crackle of biting flames. The other two goblins shrieked and fell back. One threw its arms up in front of its face and the sleeve of its shirt burst into flame.

Cries echoed through the great forge area, and heightened when more of the little elementals appeared.

The first came off the goblin, unfolding, and rose upright, standing about half the height of the scrambling goblins, but with wide, flaming shoulders and arms that left a trail of flames in the air whenever it swung around. It focused on one of the standing goblins and charged, and with a scream, the goblin rushed away.

The elemental left a line of fire in its wake as it glided across the stone floor, angry little living and yapping flames sparking and biting at the air. Other elementals crisscrossed the path, creating a pattern of burning lines.

Goblins ran every which way and drow nimbly leaped atop the various forges, reacting far more calmly and reasonably in the face of this otherworldly threat.

For this was not the first time over the last few days that such outbursts of raging, free-running elementals had swarmed the forge area.

It was expected—this was the power of a primordial, after all, and the forges and supporting lines were old and often in need of repair, in ways that visual inspections could not reveal. The breaches revealed them, but only when pipes and joints had deteriorated enough to let the little beasts free. And in those instances, the elementals poured forth in a frenzy. The thing’s chaotic power strenuously resisted any attempts to harness it. From that fiery chaos of primordial belching came forth these pseudo-elementals, these fire-kin, unthinking, raging little expressions of freed fire.

“Spellspinners!” more than one drow craftsman yelled. These artisans were all more than capable of defending themselves, and whenever a fire-kin ventured too near, it was swatted away with a finely crafted, heavily enchanted weapon.

But the artisans didn’t prefer such tactics, for those elemental-kin were a part of the magic and pure energy of the primordial beast, and to strike at them was to assault the essence of creation itself.

“Spellspinners!” The call echoed throughout the large hall and down the myriad nearby tunnels and the main drow camps.

In one such camp, farther into the Underdark the way the expedition had come, Ravel Xorlarrin took note.

“Not again,” he muttered.

“Again,” Jearth remarked, coming up beside him.

“Where is Tiago?”

“In the upper halls, pressing to the top level.”

Ravel didn’t hide his disappointment in that news, giving a harsh snort and slapping a fist against the side of his leg. When he composed himself and regarded Jearth, and the weapons master’s amused grin, he realized that he was showing a bit too much petulance.

“I will need the two of you beside me to resolve this,” he explained.

“They are elementals, and stinging fiery little wretches,” Jearth replied. “More a play for the spellspinners than warriors.”

“For mages, you mean,” Ravel replied with obvious, unhidden frustration, and he let his sour expression remain for some time, that the other spellspinners, too, could view it.

They all understood the truth of it anyway: The breakdown of the forges and the multitude of dangerous elementals running free had come as a blessing for Elderboy Brack’thal, whose pre-Spellplague techniques were proving far more effective in dealing with the fire creatures than anything Ravel and his spellspinners could offer.

Berellip was taking note, they all knew, and Ravel, particularly, knew.

“I have put my trust in you and in Tiago,” Ravel remarked.

Jearth shrugged noncommittally.

Ravel’s expression became more sly as he continued to look at this drow he considered a friend, as he reminded himself that while Jearth might be exactly that, he was also drow, and also a weapons master. Jearth’s primary concern was Jearth, of course, else he would have long ago felt the bite of a drow blade as some younger warrior tried to steal his position in the House hierarchy.

Among the Xorlarrin, spellspinners were held in higher regard than warriors, many higher even than the weapons master, but they were all merely males. The priestesses, the sisters of Xorlarrin, still were held in the highest regard. So if Brack’thal climbed above Ravel in Berellip’s eyes, would it not follow that Jearth would make a new friend in Brack’thal at the earliest opportunity?