Sylora’s only comfort then was her deep-rooted belief that Dahlia was far too young and inexperienced, and far too dedicated, to succeed in the facilitation of the needed catastrophe. The wizard horded the very real possibility, indeed the probability, that she would have to rescue Szass Tam’s victory in the west. Then, she hoped, the archlich would come to see the true limitations of that wretched elf.

“Borboy, really?” Athrogate asked with a snicker for the tenth time since he and Jarlaxle had watched Dahlia enter High Captain Borlann’s keep. The slim stone tower, known as Crow’s Nest, had been only recently erected on Luskan’s Closeguard Island where the River Mirar spilled out into the Trackless Sea.

Jarlaxle continued his amusement at the dwarf’s use of the derogatory nickname so many in Luskan had tagged on High Captain Borlann. He possessed his father’s title, and the magical Cloak of the Raven, handed down to him from his grandfather Kensidan. But there, at least according to the old seadogs haunting Luskan’s allies, the resemblance ended.

“Skinny little runt,” Athrogate remarked.

“As was Kensidan,” Jarlaxle replied. “But possessed of a presence that could fill a room.”

“Yeah, I’m remembering that one. Tough old bird. Bwahaha! Bird, eh?”

“I understood you.”

“Then why ain’t ye laughing?”

“Figure it out.”

The dwarf shook his head and muttered something about finding a companion with a sense of humor.

“Ye think she’s layin’ down for him?” Athrogate asked after a while.

“Dahlia uses every weapon to her advantage, of that I am certain.”

“But for that one? Borboy?”

“Surely you’re not jealous over an elf,” Jarlaxle remarked with eyebrows raised.

“Bah!” the dwarf snorted. “Ain’t nothing like that, ye fool.” He paused and put his hands on his hips as he looked at a candlelit window high up the moss-covered walls of Crow’s Nest. Athrogate gave a little sigh. “Though I’d have to be a dead dwarf not to see the fight’n’fun in that one.”

Jarlaxle gave a wry little grin but let it go at that. Like the dwarf, he stood staring at the keep. Nothing seemed amiss for a long while, but then from the window came a shriek that sounded like the excited screech of a giant crow. Both dwarf and drow came forward a step, peering more intently at that lone window—and the candlelight was snuffed all at once. Men began rushing around the compound, and another pair of shrieks sounded along with a blue-white flicker from behind the window, like the sudden flash of a lightning bolt.

Then came a still louder screech, a brighter flash, and a report of thunder that shook the ground beneath their feet. The window exploded outward, glass shattering and flying, and along with it … black feathers.

Athrogate emitted a strange, gulping sound then blew it out with a “Bwahaha!” Across the way, a giant black bird dived out the window, opened wide its wings, and floated across the compound, over the water, and dived to the ground right in front of Jarlaxle and Athrogate.

Before either dwarf or drow could say a word, the crow disguise flipped back into a fine, glossy cloak, to reveal its new owner.

“Let us be quick,” Dahlia said to the pair, walking past and fiddling with one of the two earrings in her right ear as she did. “Borlann was a minor nuisance, but the murderous arms of his House are long.”

“Be quick for … where?” Athrogate asked, but Dahlia didn’t slow.

“Illusk,” Jarlaxle answered before she could, and with one glance back at the compound, the drow started away, sweeping the dwarf along beside him. “And the undercity.”

The stunned Athrogate mumbled and muttered, chortled and giggled, before finally remarking, “Bet Borboy wishes ye’d left last night!”

Korvin Dor’crae paced about Valindra Shadowmantle’s decorated chamber. He stopped and stared into a large mirror and imagined the reflection he once saw in such a glass, trying to use those memories of his past life as a distraction.

It didn’t work.

He thought of Dahlia again soon enough, waiting for her to return with Jarlaxle and the dwarf. She had gone to see Borlann the Crow—her newest diamond, her newest lover. Surely Dor’crae wasn’t jealous of that. He cared not at all for such petty issues as sex, but there remained implications for him in the elf’s promiscuity.

The vampire ran his hand through his black hair, and could clearly picture the movement in the mirror, though of course the glass showed no image. Borlann was Dahlia’s tenth lover—ten he knew about, anyway—and all ten were accounted for, two on her right ear, Borlann and Dor’crae, and eight on her left. Among the Thayans, Dahlia had been given many nicknames, most alluding to a certain species of spider known for mating then eating the males, though not all of those diamonds on Dahlia’s left ear represented males.

Dahlia didn’t murder her lovers, however. No, she challenged them to a fair fight then utterly destroyed them. When Dor’crae had entered his tryst with the elf, he’d known that, and was confident in his power to defeat her, should it come to that. In fact, he’d entertained the notion of not only defeating her, but had fantasized about converting her into a servile vampire.

But he had come to know better. Dor’crae had mentally played a fight with Dahlia in his mind a thousand times. He had seen her training with Kozah’s Needle, and had witnessed two of the fights with her former lovers. And more than that, he had come to appreciate the elf warrior’s cunning.

He couldn’t beat her, and he knew it. When Dahlia had had her fill of him, when she decided to move along, for expediency, to make a point to Szass Tam, or for simple boredom or whim, he would face oblivion.

“Your friend is here again,” Valindra said, drawing Dor’crae from his thoughts.

He turned and looked at the doorway, expecting the lich referred to Dahlia. But seeing nothing there, he glanced back at Valindra, who redirected his attention to the empty skull gem, her own phylactery, which had come to serve Dor’crae in an entirely different manner.

The eyes of the gem flared red.

Nervous, Dor’crae glanced back at the door, and if he had any breath, he would have held it.

“She comes,” he whispered to the spirit in the skull gem, “with our allies for the journey to the source of power.”

The skull gem’s eyes flared. “Szass Tam watches,” a woman’s voice replied, and it sounded tinny and thin through the magical conduit. “He would not have this opportunity pass us by.”

“I understand,” Dor’crae assured her.

“He will blame one, I will blame the other,” the voice of Sylora assured him.

“I understand,” Dor’crae dutifully replied, and the flaming eyes went quiet.

Dahlia entered the chamber, and as soon as Dor’crae saw her, he noted the new ratio of her earrings, nine to one.

Valindra, too, noted the entrance of Dahlia, but more because of the drow and dwarf that followed not far behind her. The lich gave a little hiss as Athrogate showed himself, but managed enough of her composure to wish Jarlaxle well.

“It has been too long, Jarlaxle,” she said. “I am lonely.”

“Too long indeed, dear lady, but my business has kept me away from your fair city.”

“Always it is business.”

“Just lie down and die, ye rotten thing,” Athrogate muttered, the dwarf obviously having little regard for Valindra.

“Is this a problem?” Dahlia asked Jarlaxle. “You knew that Valindra would be accompanying us.”

“My little friend has a particular distaste for the walking dead,” Jarlaxle replied.

“It ain’t right,” muttered the dwarf.

Jarlaxle looked to Dor’crae and asked Dahlia, “This is your associate?”

“Korvin Dor’crae,” she replied.

Jarlaxle studied the vampire for just a moment before grinning in understanding. “And this is my associate, Athrogate,” he said to Dor’crae. “I expect you two will get along wonderfully.”

“Yeah, well met and all,” Athrogate added with a slight nod, though he glanced again Valindra’s way, his expression sour, revealing that he was, in all likelihood, oblivious to Dor’crae’s true nature.

“Let us be on our way,” Dahlia instructed. She moved to usher Valindra toward the other exit, waving for Jarlaxle and Athrogate to lead the way.

As soon as the four had moved out the door, the vampire began to follow, taking a roundabout course to pass the skull gem. He quietly dropped it into his pocket. The eyes flared as he did, showing that his unseen ally was still there, in the extra-dimensional pocket of the phylactery, and the vampire could have sworn the inanimate gem smiled at him as it disappeared into the folds of his clothing.

Chapter 6 - Another Drow and His Dwarf

BRUENOR STOOD THERE, STARING AT THE WELL, A STONE TAKEN FROM ITS base in his hand.

Drizzt didn’t know what to expect. Would Bruenor throw the stone in rage? Or would he insist that it didn’t matter and that they press on anyway, deeper into the unstable—and not as ancient as they’d first believed—underground complex.

The dwarf heaved a sigh and tossed the stone to the ground, its lettering—a human alphabet—clear to see. The well bore the signature of its all-too-human builder, and the mark of his barbarian clan. Bruenor had found the well before the earthquake had driven them out, and cost them days of digging to get back to the spot.

“Well, elf,” the dwarf remarked, “got us a hunnerd more maps to follow.”

He turned to face Drizzt and Guenhwyvar, hands on his hips, but there was no anger and little disappointment showing on his hairy face.

“What?” Bruenor added, seeing Drizzt’s obvious surprise at his measured reaction.

“You show great patience.”

Bruenor hunched his shoulders and snorted. “Ye remember when we was looking for Mithral Hall? Them months on the road, through Longsaddle, the Trollmoors, Silverymoon, and all?”

“Of course.”

“Ever knowing better months, elf?”

It was Drizzt’s turn to smile, and he conceded his friend’s point with a nod.

“Ye telled me a million times, it’s the journey and not the ending,” said Bruenor. “Might be that I’ve come to believe ye. Come on, then,” the dwarf added, and he walked between the pair, throwing a suspicious glance at the ever-troublesome panther. “I got more journeyin’ in me old legs yet.”

They came out of the cave under a perfect blue sky, with the rolling hillocks of the Crags tightening the horizon around them. It was late summer, almost fall, and the cool winds had been fairly comfortable of late. They figured they had about three more months of easy exploring before them until they had to retreat to a town for the winter—perhaps Port Llast, but Drizzt had suggested a journey out to Longsaddle to visit the Harpells. The strange clan of wizards had been decimated by the Spellplague, but after more than six decades they were finally rebuilding their ranks, their mansion on the hill, and the town beneath it.