Charon's claw

EXPECTATIONS

Effron staggered around the Shadowfell, tears clouding his vision. He had been caught quite off guard by his reaction to the fall of Herzgo Alegni, his father, for he had profoundly hated the tiefling. Never in his life had he measured up to Alegni’s expectations, not from the moment of his rescue at the base of a wind-blown cliff to the moment of Herzgo Alegni’s crushing death. Herzgo Alegni prized strength of arm, and his broken son hardly fit that description. And indeed, the warlord had made his feelings quite clear to Effron. How many times had Effron entertained the fantasy of killing the brutish tiefling? Yet, now that Alegni had been killed, right before him, the twisted warlock could experience nothing but grief and the most profound pain.

And the most profound hatred.

Dahlia had done this. The elf who had borne him, the witch who had cast him from the cliff, had done this.

Gradually the shaken warlock made his way to Draygo Quick, who seemed unsurprised to see him.

“The sword?” the Netherese lord asked immediately.

“Herzgo Alegni is dead,” Effron said, and the pain of speaking the words had him blubbering again, his legs going weak beneath him so he had to put his hand to the wall to stop himself from toppling over.

“The sword?” Draygo Quick demanded again.

“Doomed,” Effron whispered. “Destroyed, certainly, for they gained the primordial chamber.”

“They? Dahlia and her companions?”

The twisted warlock nodded.

“And they killed Lord Alegni?”

Effron just stared at him.

“Impressive,” the withered old lord whispered. “Twice now he faced them, and twice he lost. Few who knew Herzgo Alegni would have wagered on such an outcome.” Effron winced with every callous word.

Draygo Quick grinned at him with yellow teeth. “Callous, yes,” he admitted, reading Effron’s expression. “Forgive me, broken one.”

“I will kill her for this,” Effron vowed.

“Dahlia?”

“Dahlia, and any who stand beside her. You must afford me an army, that I…”

“No.”

Effron stared at him as if he had been slapped. “Herzgo Alegni must be avenged!”

The old warlock shook his head.

“The sword!” Effron protested.

“We’ll have our diviners seek its magical call. If it is destroyed, as you believe, then so be it. Better that than to have it fall into the hands of an enemy once more.”

“I must avenge him!”

“What you plan to do is of no concern to me,” Draygo Quick retorted sharply. “I will grant you that much, and nothing more. If you wish to hunt down Dahlia and her companions, then hunt.”

“I will need support.”

“More than you will ever understand.”

“Grant me…” Effron started to say, but Draygo Quick cut him short.

“Then hire some. You have friends with Cavus Dun, do you not? If you believe that I will grant you more forces after these abject and expensive failures, then you are a fool.”

“Cavus Dun!” Effron cried as if he had hit on something. “They betrayed us!”

Draygo Quick looked at him curiously. “Do tell.”

“The wizard Glorfathel fled the fight,” Effron explained. “And that filthy dwarf turned on me. She cast a spell of holding, but I avoided it. Alas, the monk did not-and the dwarf chased me around, preventing me from helping Lord Alegni in his desperate fight. Swinging her mace and laughing all the while! Were I less skilled and clever…”

Draygo Quick waved a wrinkled hand in the air to silence the young warlock.

“Interesting,” he muttered.

“I shall demand recompense!” Effron proclaimed. “Cavus Dun will repay me.”

“Your attitude will surely get you cut into little pieces,” said the old warlock. “If you consider that to be repayment, then truly you are an easy buy.”

“We must go to them!” Effron demanded.

“We?”

“You cannot allow this to stand! The Shifter failed me, and now the treachery of the hirelings…”

“Easy, young one,” Draygo Quick said. “I will speak with the Grandfather of Cavus Dun to learn what I may. You avoid them. Trust my judgment on this.”

The way he finished the response told Effron to hold silent, and so he did, staring obediently at the great warlock, awaiting instructions.

“You should rethink your course.”

“I will kill her,” Effron said.

“Family matters,” Draygo said with a sigh. “Ah, by the gods. Well enough, then, young fool, I grant you my leave. Go as you will.”

“I will have the panther.”

“You will not!”

There was no bargain to be found in that tone, Effron knew.

“Will you not help me?” the twisted warlock begged.

“On this fool’s errand? Surely not. Your father failed by underestimating this band you hunt, and failed again in his attempt to right his wrong. He lost Charon’s Claw, and that is no small thing. Better that he died trying to recover the blade than return without it. That is the way of the world.”

His casual attitude surprised Effron, until the young tiefling realized that Alegni’s failure was just that: Alegni’s failure. It could not reflect on Draygo Quick any longer, and surely the old wretch was somewhat relieved to be rid of the troublesome Herzgo Alegni.

“Go and find her, then,” Draygo Quick said. “You may use my crystal ball if it will guide you to Toril properly. I understand the formidability of your enemies and will not expect your return.”

“I must.”

Draygo Quick waved him away. “I will hear no more of this,” the old wretch said, his tone becoming very sharp suddenly. He chortled and laughed at Effron. “Idiot boy, I only kept you alive out of respect for your father. Now that he is no more, I am done with you. Be gone, then. Go and hunt her, young fool, that you might see your father again so soon, in the darker lands.”

He waved Effron away.

Effron staggered out of the room, heading for his own chamber, tears welling in his strange eyes once more as he tried to deny the stinging words of merciless Draygo Quick. He replaced that wound with anger, stopped, and turned around, making for the warlock’s room of scrying instead.

“That was harsh, Master Quick, even by your standards,” said Parise Ulfbinder, a warlock and peer of Draygo Quick. Parise, too, was a Netherese lord of great repute, and an old friend of Draygo’s, though Draygo Quick had not seen him in person in a long while, the two preferring to correspond through their respective scrying devices. The mere fact that Parise had come to Draygo’s tower in person had tipped the old warlock off to the importance of the visit. He entered from a concealed door even as Effron departed.

“Are they recalled?”

“Indeed,” said Parise. “We have opened the gates and most of our forces are safely back within the Shadowfell.”

“You heard what Effron said of the Cavus Dun trio?”

“Glorfathel, Ambergris, and Afafrenfere are not to be found among the returned,” the other warlock confirmed, though his tone revealed that he really didn’t care about that particular curiosity. “It is possible that Effron speaks the truth.”

Draygo Quick looked to the door where Effron had departed and nodded, his expression one of great lament. Despite his parting words, Draygo had come to care for this pathetic and twisted creature, he had to admit, privately at least.

“These enemies are formidable, yet you would allow your young understudy to go in pursuit?” the handsome Netherese warrior asked.

Draygo Quick didn’t lash out at the blunt remark, but merely nodded again. “He must do this. He is tied to that one, Dahlia. He must find his revenge.”

“Or his death?”

“We all die,” Draygo Quick replied.

“True, but it is best to choose when we allow, or cause, others to do so,” Parise Ulfbinder remarked slyly, drawing Draygo Quick’s full attention. “I wish to talk to you about this curious drow who has associated himself with our enemies.”

“Drizzt Do’Urden.”

“Yes,” Parise said with a nod. “There may be more to him than you know, and likely more to him than he knows.”

Draygo Quick’s eyes widened as he considered that curious statement in the context of the speaker, a Netherese theorist who had been whispering dire warnings to any lord who might listen.

Down the hallway several doors, Effron lit a single candle and moved to a small table. Atop it rested an item covered by a red cloth.

Effron pulled the cloth back, and a skull-sized ball of pure crystal glistened in the candlelight before him.

“Ah, Dahlia Sin’Dalay, murderess,” he said, and his eyes sparkled in reflection. “You think you have won, Mother. You are wrong.”

Many heartbeats passed, not a one in the room daring to even draw breath. Entreri just stood there, head and shoulders thrown back, awaiting death. But death did not visit him.

Gradually, the assassin opened his eyes and glanced over at the others. “You threw it in?” he asked.

Drizzt glanced over the rim, into the pit, and shrugged.

“You threw it in?” Entreri asked again.

“The primordial has it, surely.”

“Ye think?” Ambergris put in with a snort.

“Do you feel anything?” Drizzt asked. “Pain? A sense of impending doom?”

“Are you asking, or hoping?” Entreri replied, and Ambergris laughed all the louder. At that moment, the monk broke away from her and leaped at Drizzt-or started to, for the dwarf kicked Afafrenfere’s trailing ankle, tripping him up, and he skidded down to all fours. Before he could regain his footing, Ambergris grabbed him roughly by the shirt and his hair and hoisted him to his feet.

“Now ye hear me, boy, and ye hear me good!” the dwarf roared in his face. Still holding him by the hair, she dropped her other hand into her pouch and brought it forth, her fat thumb covered in some blue substance. As the others looked on, perplexed, she used it to draw a symbol on the monk’s face, and she chanted out what seemed to be a spell in the ancient Dwarvish tongue.

“Now ye’re geased,” she announced, letting go and shoving Afafrenfere backward.

“What?”

“Ye got me god’s wrath lurkin’ on yer forehead, ye dolt,” Ambergris explained. “Ye make a move at me drow friend here, or either o’ his friends, and Dumathoin’s sure to melt yer brains that they’ll flow from yer nose like so much snot.”

“B-but…” Afafrenfere stuttered, hopping all around and stabbing his finger in Drizzt’s direction. “He killed Parbid!”

“Bah, yerselfs started the fight and ye lost, and so be it.”

“But… Parbid!” Afafrenfere said with a great wail and keen.

Ambergris rushed up and grabbed him by the hair again and pulled him very close, so that her long and fat nose touched his. “If ye’re wantin’ to see yer dearest boy again, then go and strike at the drow,” she said. “Been hoping to watch a good brain melt-been years and years since the last I seen.”

Afafrenfere stuttered and gasped, but when Ambergris let him go, he moved back and said no more.

“Well, what of ye?” the dwarf asked of Entreri. “Ye dyin’ yet?”

Entreri stared at her incredulously.

“Then let’s be gone afore we’re all dying,” the dwarf said. “That silence spell I throwed in the hallway ain’t for lastin’!”

She started off, slapping Afafrenfere to fall in line beside her as she made for the elemental’s tunnel. She pulled out her magical decanter as she entered and summoned its spraying water once more, wetting the hot stones before her, and laughing indeed as the swirls of steam arose around her.

“Nothing?” Drizzt asked Entreri again. He walked over and crouched beside the sobbing Dahlia, hugging her close.

“Well?” he asked of Entreri yet again.

The assassin just shrugged. If he was dying, he didn’t feel it.

Drizzt gently pulled Dahlia up beside him and started off. Entreri fell in line, following the dwarf.

Entreri looked at Drizzt coldly.

“Not even a bit of pain?” Drizzt asked, and he tried hard to sound disappointed.

Artemis Entreri snorted and looked away. He was alive. How could it be? For the sword had been keeping him alive for all of these decades, surely, and now the sword was gone. Or perhaps the primordial hadn’t destroyed it-perhaps its magic was strong enough to survive the bite of that most ancient and powerful beast.

Or maybe it was destroyed, and the mortal coil of Entreri would begin to age again, that he might live out the remainder of his life as if he had been in stasis all these years.

Either way, he figured, he was still alive, and more than that, and he knew it profoundly: he was free.

He put his arm around Dahlia and pulled her close, signaling for Drizzt, who seemed less than thrilled at that movement, to take up the lead.

They moved through the complex with all speed, and encountered no shades, who, unbeknownst to them, were fast departing through magical gateways, and encountered no Menzoberranyr drow, who had moved to the deeper tunnels of the Underdark to weather the Shadovar advance.

Expecting pursuit, of course, Drizzt didn’t slow the pace at all. With the help of Dahlia’s raven cape, they got through to the upper levels and pressed on to the throne room and the complex exit.

Many hours later, Tiago Baenre and Gol’fanin moved quietly to the entrance of the forge room and peered in. The battle of elementals continued, water against fire, but were much diminished, for the floor was ankle-deep in water, a situation surely not conducive to the spawning of creatures of fire.

Still, the forges glowed orange, overheated by the flow of primordial power, and every so often, one erupted, spewing forth a line of blazing flames that hissed angrily across the giant puddle and sent swirls of steam into the air.

We can get to the underchamber, Tiago’s hands flashed.

Where we’ll be cornered and slaughtered? the old blacksmith signaled back. By whom?

Gol’fanin looked at him doubtfully.

“They’ve left,” Tiago announced aloud, for if he believed those words, after all, then why was he bothering to use the silent hand language?

“All of them?”

“We’ve seen no sign of the Shadovar.”

“We’ve gone no farther than this place,” Gol’fanin reminded. “Perhaps they came in and engaged in battle with the elemental forces in the forge, then fell back to a more defensible position. Would that not be your own choice, as it was Ravel’s?”

Tiago had to admit that.

“Wait for the scouts,” Gol’fanin advised. “Before we go in there, let us make sure that our efforts are worthwhile.”

Tiago put a hand on Byok’s saddlebag and the unfinished sword and translucent shield strapped beneath it. Truly he was torn, for in those few moments before the primordial had broken free and chased them from the room, Tiago had felt the promise of Lullaby and Spiderweb.

“If we restore control of the room and the Shadovar come back to this magnificent place, will they so willingly depart a second time?” Gol’fanin asked.

Despite his desires, Tiago knew that he was waging a losing argument.

“It will take tendays to ensure that they are truly gone from this vast complex,” Tiago lamented. “I’ll not wait that long.”

Gol’fanin stared into the room for a few moments before offering a compromise. “We can discern in but a few hours if our enemies are far enough removed from the forge room for us to venture in. So let us not restore it until we are certain of the security of the complex. Not fully, at least. For I need only the one forge fired, and only for short amounts of time. I understand the design of the subchamber well enough to facilitate that which is needed.”

Tiago’s eyes flashed with hunger. “Then go.”

“When the scouts-”

“Go now,” Tiago ordered. “I will stay here and watch over you. The scouts will catch up to us soon enough, and I will put them all around the area.”

The old blacksmith looked him over for a bit, then shook his head at the impatient young warrior and splashed into the room. He discerned the pattern of the fire-spewing forges easily enough and made his way to the trap door disguised as another forge. Fortunately, the chamber within the fake oven was not full of water, and when Gol’fanin managed to open the door, he saw that the room below was neither flooded nor full of fire. Still, the pipes below glowed angrily and threateningly, so the blacksmith adjusted and tightened his magical garments and put on his magical gloves before venturing below.

Sometime later, Gol’fanin was back at the room’s great forge, implements and unfinished items at hand, preparing to continue his solemn work. The rest of the room continued to roar with unbridled fire, hiss with angry steam, and rain briny water, but Gol’fanin expected that would prove to be no more than a minor nuisance. Coincidentally, the blacksmith had just tapped his small finishing hammer against the flat of the shield, had just begun his actual work on the items, when he noted the return of Tiago, and surprisingly, the young Baenre approached from out of the corridor to the primordial pit, though Gol’fanin had not seen him go down that way, and as far as the blacksmith knew, there were no other entrances to that critical chamber.

“We found the wayward Xorlarrin brother,” he said.

“And Brack’thal has information?”

“He is quite dead.”

“My sympathies to the Xorlarrins,” Gol’fanin replied, and of course he meant no such thing.

“He was killed by the blade,” Tiago explained. “And found in a new tunnel, recently dug, or melted, it seems.”

Gol’fanin didn’t hide his intrigue, but Tiago had no answers for him.

“Perhaps the work of his own pet elemental,” the young Baenre offered. “We cannot know.”

“Your Xorlarrin lovers can find out. The dead are not so silent to the calls of a priestess.”

Tiago shrugged as if it did not really matter. Berellip’s main concern and motivation in talking to the dead Xorlarrin mage would be to learn if Ravel or his agents had killed Brack’thal, which wasn’t likely the case.

“And the Shadovar?” Gol’fanin asked.

“We have found signs of their march to this place, but none of their retreat. Yet they are not to be found.”

“Back to the Shadowfell, then.”

“And so Gauntlgrym is ours.”

“Counsel Ravel to proceed cautiously,” the blacksmith advised.

“But you will continue your work?”

“Of course.”

“Then I hold no sense of urgency.”

The five companions rested in Gauntlgrym’s great entry hall, far to the side of the great throne and the graves.

“Touched it,” Ambergris said to Drizzt when he walked up beside her, to find her staring across at the throne.

“Come,” Drizzt bade her, and he started that way. He led her right past the throne, though, to the small group of graves.

“King Bruenor,” he explained, pointing to the largest. “Here in Gauntlgrym, he fell.”

“Word was that he died in Mithral Hall,” Ambergris replied. “We held a great drunk in his honor.” She paused and laughed. “But we knowed, elf, we knowed,” she said.

The way she addressed him, “elf,” had Drizzt back on his heels, for it was a nickname he had heard before, and spoken with similar inflection and affection.

“Glad that he found his road,” Ambergris said solemnly. “His reputation always called him as one for the road and not the throne.”

“His shield dwarf,” Drizzt explained as they paced to the other larger cairn.

“The Pwent,” Ambergris mumbled, and that came as a bit of confirmation to Drizzt that this one could indeed be trusted.

“And the others who fell in the fight for this place,” Drizzt explained of the other graves. “Battlehammer dwarves from Icewind Dale.”

Ambergris nodded and quietly whispered a prayer for them all.

Drizzt patted her on the shoulder and led her back to the others. He paused before he got there, though, and looked the dwarf straight in the eye. “Geas?” he asked, his voice full of suspicion.

Ambergris looked at him stupidly.

“Your shade friend,” Drizzt clarified, and the dwarf snickered.

“Chalk,” she explained. “Blue chalk and nothing more… well, a bit o’ magic suggestion to convince the dolt.”

“So if this Afafa… Afrenfafa…”

“Afafrenfere,” Ambergris explained.

“So if this Afafrenfere tries to kill me, I’ll not find Dumathoin coming to my rescue?”

The dwarf showed a gap-toothed smile. “He won’t try,” she assured Drizzt. “That one’s a flower, but he ain’t hopin’ to be a daisy. Not the smartest, not the bravest, but a gooder heart than them Netherese butchers e’er deserved. Ye got me personal guarantee on that.”

For some inexplicable reason, that seemed more than good enough to Drizzt.

R. A. Salvatore

Charon's Claw

I n the dark of Gauntlgrym’s throne room, a shifting stone stole the quiet.

Then came a grunt, and more sounds of rocks sliding against each other. A black-bearded dwarf crawled from under the pile, then reached back and grabbed at something he had left behind, grunting with exertion as he tried to extricate it. “Durned thing’s stuck,” he muttered, and with a great tug, he pulled free a most curious helmet, one set with a long and oft-bloodied spike. His effort sent him flying over backward to crash against the stones of the nearest cairn, where he lay on his back as the dust settled.

“Durn it,” he cursed, seeing the trouble he had caused, and he rolled to his feet and began replacing the dislodged stones. “Don’t mean to be desecratin’ yer tomb…”

The words caught in his throat, and the rocks fell from his hands. There in the disturbed tomb before him was a curious helm, with a single curving horn, the other having long before been broken away.

The dwarf fell to his knees and dug the helm free, and saw too the face of the dead dwarf interred within.

“Me king,” Thibbledorf Pwent breathed.

Nay, not breathed, for creatures in the state of Thibbledorf Pwent did not draw breath.

He fell back to his bum, staring in shock, his mouth wide in a silent scream. If he’d had a mirror, or a reflection that would actually show up in a mirror,

Thibbledorf Pwent might have noticed his newest weapon: canine fangs.

Arunika’s imp, released from its duties by the succubus, loped around the swirling mists of the lower planes, seeking its true master.

It found the hulking balor seated atop a mushroom throne, clearly expecting the visitor.

“The devil is done with you?” the great demon asked.

“The threat to her domain is ended,” the imp replied. “The enemies have moved along.”

“The enemies?” came the leading question.

“The Shadovar.”

“Only the Shadovar? I grow weary-”

“Drizzt Do’Urden!” the imp spat, a name it, Druzil, hated as much as anything in all the world. “He has left Neverwinter.”

“And you know where?” the demonic monster roared.

Druzil shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot.

“You can find him?” the beast demanded.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Druzil squealed, for a hint of anything but that response would have surely gotten the wretched little imp squished flat by the merciless balor.

The demon began to utter a sound that seemed a cross between a purring giant cat and an avalanche.

Druzil understood that, for it had been near to a hundred years, at least, and Errtu, twice-banished by this dark elf, Drizzt, was, or soon would be, free to carry out his revenge.

More than a tenday passed before Berellip and the other priestesses joined Ravel and the others in the forge room. The lower reaches of the complex had been fully scouted, and some drow had even gone up to the top levels, though the stair remained folded, with no signs of Shadovar to be found.

Now the work had begun in earnest to secure and repair the forge room, while a team of goblin masons worked to seal the strange second tunnel leading from the primordial chamber to the outer corridor.

And Gol’fanin’s work on Lullaby and Spiderweb proceeded with all speed. Tiago was at his side, as usual, when the Xorlarrin nobles caught up to him. “It was Masoj and his companions who killed Brack’thal,” Ravel said, before they had even exchanged proper greetings.

“Truly?” Tiago asked.

“Truly,” Berellip said, her tone showing that she didn’t appreciate even being questioned on this matter, for it was she who had spoken to the spirit of her dead brother. Such conversations were usually vague and often unreliable, they all knew, but Berellip seemed quite confident.

“Masoj?” Gol’fanin dared to ask, for it was not his place to interrupt the conversation of nobles.

“Masoj Oblodra,” Tiago explained. “Of Bregan D’aerthe.”

“Oblodra?” Gol’fanin said with surprise, before he could bite back the further indiscretion. “That is a name not often spoken among the folk of Menzoberranzan. Not since the Time of Troubles.”

“An Oblodran captains Bregan D’aerthe,” Jearth reminded, referring to Kimmuriel.

Gol’fanin seemed satisfied with that, and he went back to his work, but he muttered “Masoj?” repeatedly under his breath, as if trying to recall something.

“There are implications here,” Berellip warned, staring at Tiago.

“If the agents of Bregan D’aerthe killed your brother, then they did so in a battle of Brack’thal’s choosing,” the young Baenre answered evenly. “Bregan D’aerthe does not go against nobles of a major drow House.”

“Without the permission of House Baenre,” Berellip added, making her suspicions clear.

Tiago laughed at her. “If I had wanted your crazy brother dead, dear priestess, I would have killed him myself.”

“Enough,” Ravel put in. “Let us continue our work and our exploration. We will discover soon enough why this happened. And we already know,” he added, looking hard at Berellip, “that Brack’thal almost surely initiated it.”

“It was Brack’thal who sabotaged the forge room and drove us out,” Tiago said. “If it was Bregan D’aerthe, I should pay them well for saving us the trouble.”

Berellip and Saribel both glared at him for that remark, but Tiago wasn’t about to back down.

“Need I remind you of your brother’s… shall we say, instability?”

Berellip huffed and swung around and swept out of the forge room, Saribel in her wake. With a helpless shake of his head to the impertinent Tiago, who was not making his job of keeping his sisters under control any easier, Ravel followed.

“They are brilliant,” Jearth remarked a moment later, and Tiago turned to see the Xorlarrin weapons master admiring the half-finished sword and shield.

“You met this Masoj… Oblodra?” Gol’fanin asked, never looking up from his work or indicating which of the warriors he was addressing.

“Yes,” they both answered.

“An agent of Bregan D’aerthe?”

“So he claimed,” said Jearth. “So claimed his companions as well, a human and an elf.”

The blacksmith gave a little laugh and did look up at that remarkable information.

“A human who once came to Menzoberranzan, beside Jarlaxle,” Tiago added.

“I knew of a Masoj once, though not an Oblodran,” said Gol’fanin, who didn’t hide the fact that he suspected much more than he was letting on, something that was not lost on the two warriors. “He was a wizard?”

“A warrior,” said Tiago.

“Carrying three blades,” Jearth added. “A great broadsword strapped across his back and a pair of scimitars.”

The blacksmith nodded and went back to his work. With the conversation apparently at its end, Jearth excused himself and went back to his duties.

“Do you think that Bregan D’aerthe will cause us trouble here?” Tiago quietly asked. “Surely Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle understand that the Xorlarrin move to Gauntlgrym was sanctioned by Matron Mother Quenthel…”

“Bregan D’aerthe is no worry of yours,” Gol’fanin assured him. “But Masoj… ah, Masoj.”

“What are you speaking of?” Tiago demanded.

“Do they not teach history at Melee-Magthere any longer?” Gol’fanin asked.

“You try my patience,” Tiago warned.

“I make your weapons,” Gol’fanin retorted.

“What, then?” Tiago demanded, or begged. “What do you know?”

“I know only what you have told me. But I suspect more.”

“What?” the exasperated Tiago shouted.

Gol’fanin chuckled a bit more. “Scimitars? A drow carrying scimitars and traveling near the surface with iblith.”

Tiago held up his hands, completely lost by the leading statement.

“What more can you tell me about this curious rogue?” the blacksmith asked.

Tiago snorted.

“What color were his eyes?” Gol’fanin asked.

Tiago started to answer “lavender,” but choked on the word. His eyes widened in shock and he gaped at Gol’fanin and breathed, “No.”

“Is it possible that a noble drow of House Baenre, surely soon to ascend to the rank of weapons master of the First House of Menzoberranzan, came face to face with Drizzt Do’Urden and didn’t even realize it?” Gol’fanin asked.

Tiago glanced all around, as if to ensure that no others had heard that statement. His thoughts were whirling as he tried to recall all that he knew of the history of that traitorous rogue named Drizzt, among the most coveted outlaws ever known in Menzoberranzan. Drizzt Do’Urden, guardian of another dwarven complex, Mithral Hall, where Matron Baenre herself had been killed! Drizzt Do’Urden, who had slain Dantrag Baenre, Tiago’s grandfather.

Gol’fanin held up the unfinished sword and tapped it on the shield. “These prizes will make you a weapons master,” he said. “But the head of Drizzt Do’Urden? That prize will make you a legend.”