Drizzt noted a glimmer down to the side—not the flickering yellow of a torch, but a constant silvery stream. He moved cautiously and found an open grate, with the moonlight streaming in and highlighting the wet iron rungs of a ladder bolted into the sewer wall. Drizzt glanced around quickly—too quickly—and rushed to the ladder.
The shadows to his left exploded into motion, and Drizzt caught the telltale shine of a blade just in time to turn his back from the angle of the blow. He staggered forward, feeling a burning across his shoulder blades and then the wetness of his blood rolling down under his cloak.
Drizzt ignored the pain, knowing that any hesitation would surely result in his death, and spun around, slamming his back into the wall and sending the curved blades of both his scimitars into a defensive spin before him.
Entreri issued no taunts this time. He came in furiously, cutting and slicing with his saber, knowing that he had to finish Drizzt before the shock of the ambush wore off. Viciousness replaced finesse, engulfing the injured assassin in a frenzy of hatred.
He leaped into Drizzt, locking one of the drow’s arms under his own wounded limb and trying to use brute strength to drive his saber into his opponent’s neck.
Drizzt steadied himself quickly enough to control the initial assault. He surrendered his one arm to the assassin’s hold, concentrating solely on getting his free scimitar up to block the strike. The blade’s hilt again locked with that of Entreri’s saber, holding it motionless in midswing halfway between the combatants.
Behind their respective blades, Drizzt and Entreri eye-balled each other with open hatred, their grimaces only inches apart.
“How many crimes shall I punish you for, assassin?” Drizzt growled. Reinforced by his own proclamation, Drizzt pushed the saber back an inch, shifting the angle of his own deadly blade down more threateningly toward Entreri.
Entreri did not answer, nor did he seem alarmed at the slight shift in the blades’ momentum. A wild, exhilarated look came into his eyes, and his thin lips widened into an evil grin.
Drizzt knew that the killer had another trick to play.
Before the drow could figure the game, Entreri spat a mouthful of filthy sewer water into his lavender eyes.
The sound of renewed fighting led Bruenor and Catti-brie along the tunnels. They caught sight of the moonlit forms struggling just as Entreri played his wicked card.
“Drizzt!” Catti-brie shouted, knowing that she couldn’t get to him, even get her bow up, in time to stop Entreri.
Bruenor growled and bolted forward with only one thought on his mind: If Entreri killed Drizzt, he would cut the dog in half!
The sting and shock of the water broke Drizzt’s concentration, and his strength, for only a split second, but he knew that even a split second was too long against Artemis Entreri. He jerked his head to the side desperately.
Entreri snapped his saber down, slicing a gash across Drizzt’s forehead and crushing the drow’s thumb between the twisting hilts. “I have you!” he squealed, hardly believing the sudden turn of events.
At that horrible moment, Drizzt could not disagree with the observation, but the drow’s next move came more on instinct than on any calculations, and with agility that surprised even Drizzt. In the instant of a single, tiny hop, Drizzt snapped one foot behind Entreri’s ankle and tucked the other under him against the wall. He pushed away and twisted as he went. On the slick floor, Entreri had no chance to dodge the trip, and he toppled backward into the murky stream, Drizzt splashing down on top of him.
The weight of Drizzt’s heavy fall jammed the crosspiece of his scimitar into Entreri’s eye. Drizzt recovered from the surprise of his own movement faster than Entreri, and he did not miss the opportunity. He spun his hand over on the hilt and reversed the flow of the blade, pulling it free of Entreri’s and swinging a short cut back and down, with the tip of the scimitar diving in at the assassin’s ribs. In grim satisfaction, Drizzt felt it begin to cut in.
It was Entreri’s turn for a move wrought of desperation. Having no time to bring his saber to bear, the assassin punched straight out, slamming Drizzt’s face with the butt of his weapon. Drizzt’s nose splattered onto his cheek, flashes of color exploded before his eyes, and he felt himself lifted and dropped off to the side before his scimitar could finish its work.
Entreri scrambled out of reach and pulled himself from the murky water. Drizzt, too, rolled away, struggling against the dizziness to regain his feet. When he did, he found himself facing Entreri once again, the assassin even worse off than he.
Entreri looked over the drow’s shoulder, to the tunnel and the charging dwarf and to Catti-brie and her killer bow, coming up level with his face. He jumped to the side, to the iron rungs, and started up to the street.
Catti-brie followed his motion in a fluid movement, keeping him dead in her sights. No one, not even Artemis Entreri, could escape once she had him cleanly targeted.
“Get him, girl!” Bruenor yelled.
Drizzt had been so involved in the battle that he hadn’t even noticed the arrival of his friends. He spun around to see Bruenor rolling in, and Catti-brie just about to loose her arrow.
“Hold!” Drizzt growled in a tone that froze Bruenor in his tracks and sent a shiver through Catti-brie’s spine. They both gawked, open-mouthed, at Drizzt.
“He is mine!” the drow told them.
Entreri didn’t hesitate to consider his good fortune. Out in the open streets, his streets, he might find his sanctuary.
With no retort forthcoming from either of his unnerved friends, Drizzt slapped the magical mask up over his face and was just as quick to follow.
The realization that his delay might bring danger to his friends—for they had gone rushing off to search for some way to meet him back on the street—spurred Wulfgar to action. He clasped Aegis-fang tightly in the hand of his wounded arm, forcing injured muscles to respond to his commands.
Then he thought of Drizzt, of that quality his friend possessed to completely sublimate fear in the face of impossible odds and replace it with pointed fury.
This time, it was Wulfgar’s eyes that burned with an inner fire. He stood wide-legged in the corridor, his breath rasping out as low growls, and his muscles flexing and relaxing in a rhythmic pattern that honed them to fighting perfection.
The thieves’ guild, the strongest house in Calimport, he thought.
A smile spread over the barbarian’s face. The pain was gone now, and the weariness had flown from his bones. His smile became a heartfelt laugh as he rushed off.
Time to fight.
He took note of the ascending slope of the tunnel as he jogged along and knew the next door he went through would be at or near street level. He soon came upon, not one, but three doors: one at the end of the tunnel and one on either side. Wulfgar hardly slowed, figuring the direction he was traveling to be as good as any, and barreled through the door at the corridor’s end, crashing into an octagonal-shaped guard room complete with four very surprised guards.
“Hey!” the one in the middle of the room blurted as Wulfgar’s huge fist slammed him to the floor. The barbarian spotted another door directly across from the one he had entered, and cut a beeline for it, hoping to get through the room without a drawn-out fight.
One of the guards, a puny, dark-haired little rogue, proved the quickest. He darted to the door, inserted a key, and flipped the lock, then he turned to face Wulfgar, holding the key out before him and grinning a broken-toothed smile.
“Key,” he whispered, tossing the device to one of his comrades to the side.
Wulfgar’s huge hand grabbed his shirt, taking out more than a few chest hairs, and the little rogue felt his feet leave the floor.
With one arm, Wulfgar threw him through the door.
“Key,” the barbarian said, stepping over the kindling—and thief pile.
Wulfgar hadn’t nearly outrun the danger, though. The next room was a great meeting hall, with dozens of chambers directly off it
. Cries of alarm followed the barbarian as he sprinted through, and a well-rehearsed defense plan went into execution all around him. The human thieves, Pook’s original guild members, fled for the shadows and the safety of their rooms, for they had been relieved of the responsibilities of dealing with intruders more than a year before—since Rassiter and his crew had joined the guild.
Wulfgar rushed to a short flight of stairs and leaped up them in a single bound, smashing through the door at the top. A maze of corridors and open chambers loomed before him, a treasury of artworks—statues, paintings, and tapestries—beyond any collection the barbarian had ever imagined. Wulfgar had little time to appreciate the artwork. He saw the forms chasing him. He saw them off to the side and gathering down the corridors before him to cut him off. He knew what they were; he had just been in their sewers.
He knew the smell of wererats.
Entreri had his feet firmly planted, ready for Drizzt as he came up through the open grate. When the drow’s form began to exit onto the street, the assassin cut down viciously with his saber.
Drizzt, running up the iron rungs in perfect balance, had his hands free, however. Expecting such a move, he had crossed his scimitars up over his head as he came through. He caught Entreri’s saber in he wedge and pushed it harmlessly aside.
Then they were faced off on the open street.
The first hints of dawn cracked over the eastern horizon, the temperature had already begun to soar, and the lazy city awakened around them.
Entreri came in with a rush, and Drizzt fought him back with wicked counters and sheer strength. The drow did not blink, his features locked in a determined grimace. Methodically he moved at the assassin, both scimitars cutting with even, solid strokes.
His left arm useless and his left eye seeing no more than a blur, Entreri knew that he could not hope to win. Drizzt saw it, too, and he picked up the tempo, slapping again and again at the slowing saber in an effort to further weary Entreri’s only defense.
But as Drizzt pressed into the battle, his magical mask once again loosened and dropped from his face.
Entreri smirked, knowing that he had once again dodged certain death. He saw his out.
“Caught in a lie?” he whispered wickedly.
Drizzt understood.
“A drow!” Entreri shrieked to the multitude of people he knew to be watching the battle from nearby shadows. “From the Forest of Mir! A scout, a prelude to an army! A drow!”
Curiosity now pulled a throng from their concealments. The battle had been interesting enough before, but now the street people had to come closer to verify Entreri’s claims. Gradually a circle began to form around the combatants, and Drizzt and Entreri heard the ring of swords coming free of scabbards.
“Good-bye, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Entreri whispered under the growing tumult and the cries of “drow!” springing up throughout the area. Drizzt could not deny the effectiveness of the assassin’s ploy. He glanced around nervously, expecting an attack from behind at any moment.
Entreri had the distraction he needed. As Drizzt looked to the side again, he broke away and stumbled off through the crowd, shouting, “Kill the drow! Kill him!”
Drizzt swung around, blades ready, as the anxious mob cautiously moved in. Catti-brie and Bruenor came up onto the street then and saw at once what had happened, and what was about to happen. Bruenor rushed to Drizzt’s side and Catti-brie notched an arrow.
“Back away!” the dwarf grumbled. “Suren there be no evil here, except for the one ye fools just let get away!”
One man approached boldly, his spear leading the way.
A silver explosion caught the weapon’s shaft, severing its tip. Horrified, the man dropped the broken spear and looked to the side, to where Catti-brie had already notched another arrow.
“Get away,” she growled at him. “Leave the elf in peace, or me next shot won’t be lookin’ for yer weapon!”
The man backed away, and the crowd seemed to lose its heart for the fight as quickly as it had found it. None of them ever really wanted to tangle with a drow elf anyway, and they were more than happy now to believe the dwarf’s words, that this one wasn’t evil.
Then a commotion down the lane turned all heads. Two of the guards posing as bums outside the thieves’ guild pulled open the door—to the sound of fighting—and charged inside, slamming the door behind them.
“Wulfgar!” shouted Bruenor, roaring down the road. Catti-brie started to follow but turned back to consider Drizzt.
The drow stood as if torn, looking one way, to the guild, and the other, to where the assassin had run. He had Entreri beaten; the injured man could not possibly stand up against him.
How could he just let Entreri go?
“Yer friends need ye,” Catti-brie reminded him. “If not for Regis, then for Wulfgar.”
Drizzt shook his head in self-reproach. How could he even have considered abandoning his friends at that critical moment? He rushed past Catti-brie, chasing Bruenor down the road.
Above Rogues Circle, the dawn’s light had already found Pasha Pook’s lavish chambers. LaValle moved cautiously toward the curtain at the side of his room and pushed it aside. Even he, a practiced wizard, would not dare to approach the device of unspeakable evil before the sun had risen, the Taros Hoop, his most powerful—and frightening—device.
He grasped its iron frame and slid it out of the tiny closet. On its stand and rollers, it was taller than he, with the worked hoop, large enough for a man to walk through, fully a foot off the floor. Pook had remarked that it was similar to the hoop the trainer of his great cats had used.
But any lion jumping through the Taros Hoop would hardly land safely on the other side.
LaValle turned the hoop to the side and faced it fully, examining the symmetrical spider web that filled its interior. So fragile the webbing appeared, but LaValle knew the strength in its strands, a magical power that transcended the very planes of existence.
LaValle slipped the instrument’s trigger, a thin scepter capped with an enormous black pearl, into his belt and wheeled the Taros Hoop out into the central room of the level. He wished that he had the time to test his plan, for he certainly didn’t want to disappoint his master again, but the sun was nearly full in the eastern sky and Pook would not be pleased with any delay.
Still in his nightshirt, Pook dragged himself out into the central chamber at LaValle’s call. The guildmaster’s eyes lit up at the sight of the Taros Hoop, which he, not a wizard and not understanding the dangers involved with such an item, thought a simply wonderful toy.
LaValle, holding the scepter in one hand and the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar in the other, stood before the device. “Hold this,” he said to Pook, tossing him the statuette. “We can get the cat later; I’ll not need the beast for the task at hand.”
Pook absently dropped the statuette into a pocket.
“I have scoured the planes of existence,” the wizard explained. I knew the cat to be of the Astral Plane, but I wasn’t certain that the halfling would remain there—if he could find his way out and of course, the Astral Plane is very extensive.”
“Enough!” ordered Pook. “Be on with it! What have you to show me?”
“Only this,” LaValle replied, waving the scepter in front of the Taros Hoop. The webbing tingled with power and lit up in tiny flashes of lightning. Gradually the light became more constant, filling in the area between strands, and the image of the webbing disappeared into the background of cloudy blue.
LaValle spoke a command word, and the hoop focused in on a bright, well-lit grayness, a scene in the Astral Plane. There sat Regis, leaning comfortably against the limned image of a tree, a starlight sketch of an oak, with his hands tucked behind his head and his feet crossed out in front of him.
Pook shook the grogginess from his head. “Get him,” he coughed. “How can we get him?”
Before LaValle could answer, the door burst open and Rassiter stumbled into the room. “Fighting, Pook,”
he gasped, out of breath, “in the lower levels. A giant barbarian.”
“You promised me that you would handle it,” Pook growled at him.
“The assassin’s friends—” Rassiter began, but Pook had no time for explanations. Not now.
“Shut the door,” he said to Rassiter.
Rassiter quieted and did as he was told. Pook was going to be angry enough with him when he learned of the disaster in the sewers—no need to press the point.
The guildmaster turned back to LaValle, this time not asking. “Get him,” he said.
LaValle chanted softly and waved the scepter in front of the Taros Hoop again, then he reached through the glassy curtain separating the planes and caught the sleepy Regis by the hair.
“Guenhwyvar!” Regis managed to shout, but then LaValle tugged him through the portal and he tumbled on the floor, rolling right up to the feet of Pasha Pook.
“Uh … hello,” he stammered, looking up at Pook apologetically. “Can we talk about this?”
Pook kicked him hard in the ribs and planted the butt of his walking stick on Regis’s chest. “You will cry out for death a thousand times before I release you from this world,” the guild-master promised.
Regis did not doubt a word of it.
ulfgar dodged and ducked, slipping into the midst of lines of statues or behind heavy tapestries as he went. There were simply too many of the wererats, closing in all about him, for him to even hope to escape.
He passed one corridor and saw a group of three ratmen rushing down toward him. Feigning terror, the barbarian sprinted beyond the opening, then pulled up short and put his back tight against the corner. When the ratmen rushed into the room, Wulfgar smashed them down with quick chops of Aegis-fang.
He then retraced their steps back down the passage, hoping that he might confuse the rest of his pursuers.
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