Gauntlgrym

SHADES OF GRAY

AS HE WALKED PAST THE GLASS, HERZGO ALEGNI COULDN’T HELP BUT utter a soft growl. His skin had once been so beautifully red, a shining tribute to his devilish bloodline, but the gray pall of the Shadovar had dulled it. His eyes had escaped that change, though, he noted with some satisfaction. The red irises remained in all their hellish splendor.

Alegni accepted the trade-off, though. The dulling of his skin was a minor price to pay for the extended lifespan, and numerous other benefits his life among the Shadovar offered. And though they shared a xenophobic bias with so many of the other closed-minded races of Faer?n, he had found his own path within the ranks of his adopted people. In less than a decade, Herzgo Alegni had become a battle group leader, and barely a decade after that, he had been given the awesome responsibility of leading the Netherese expedition to Neverwinter Wood, in search of fallen Xinlenal Enclave.

He lingered in front of the mirror, admiring his new black weathercloak, its fabric satiny and shimmering, the interior of its stiff collar the most wondrous hue of bright red, matching the blade of his large sword and so beautifully complementing the long purple hair that flowed around his ramlike horns. The high collar diverted most of his hair so it wouldn’t hang down his back, but rather flow out around his neck and over his muscular chest. He kept his leather vest partially untied, of course, to emphasize the rippling muscles of his massive torso.

Appearance was important, the warrior knew, and Herzgo Alegni had never been one to shy from a mirror, in any case. He was the leader-intimidation worked in his favor, particularly when he planned to rendezvous with Barrabus the Gray. That one, Alegni did not trust. That one, above all others in his charge, he knew would one day try to kill him, and with good reason.

And Barrabus was quite accomplished at the art of murder.

The hard heels of his high black leather boots clicking loudly on the cobblestones, Herzgo Alegni strode from his house full of purpose and full of power that morning. He didn’t even attempt to hide his obvious Netherese affiliation. There was no need to do so in Neverwinter any longer, for Alegni’s expedition had been so successful already that none would dare move against the shades.

The Lucky Drake was the newest building in Neverwinter, set up high on a hill overlooking the city and the thundering surf of the Sword Coast. Surveying the city from the porch of the inn, Alegni was reminded yet again of the vast expansion of Neverwinter in the past few decades, since the fall of Luskan to the pirate captains and the floundering of Port Llast. How many lived within the walls of Neverwinter, and just outside the city proper? Thirty thousand, perhaps?

Despite their numbers, they were an unorganized bunch to be sure, with a feeble militia and a lord more concerned with his evenfeast than with protecting his city. For so long, Lord Hugo Babris had been secure in his position. With wild Luskan to the north, her rival pirates uniformly glad for the expanding buffer city, and mighty Waterdeep to the south, Neverwinter had enjoyed great security of late. No ships bent on attack would dodge the armada of Waterdeep, only to be raided by the many privateers running free along the coast north of that greatest of cities.

All of that had left Neverwinter ill-prepared for the arrival of the Netherese-but then again, could anyone truly be prepared for the fall of darkness?-a weakness Herzgo Alegni had been quick to exploit. And since Neverwinter had not been the target of his mission, that being the forest to the southeast, the tiefling had allowed Hugo Babris the illusion that he was still in control of his city.

Alegni’s gaze drifted down to the wharf, the precinct that had changed the least in the last tumultuous decades. The Sunken Flagon was there-Barrabus had no doubt spent the night at that very inn. Alegni couldn’t help but smile at long-ago memories of that place, back before the Spellplague, when he was a young warrior come to find his treasure and his legacy like so many other confident adventurers. Back then, tieflings had to lurk in the shadows, to hide their proud lineage and heritage. How fortunate, Alegni thought, for in those very shadows he had found something more, something greater, something darker.

The warlord shook himself from his wistful contemplation and moved his gaze to the Neverwinter River and the three ornate bridges crossing it. All were beautiful-the tradesmen of Neverwinter took great pride in their work-but one in particular, built with ornamental wings spread wide to either side, caught and held Alegni’s attention. Truly, of the three bridges connecting the halves of the city, north and south, it was the most impressive, for it was carved into the likeness of a wyvern taking wing, great and graceful. For many decades, the bridge had held strong and solid, its substructure supported by a metal grid forged by dwarves and continually reinforced. From a distance, it was beautiful to behold, and that feeling only grew on closer inspection. The bridge had been crafted to perfection in every facet-except for its name: the Winged Wyvern Bridge.

The fools had allowed the simple physical depiction, and not the artistry, to give the magnificent structure its mundane name.

Alegni started down the cobblestone road, determined to arrive on that bridge, the appointed rendezvous, before Barrabus. He hadn’t seen his assassin in months, after all, and wanted that first image he presented to be one that reminded Barrabus the Gray of why he hadn’t dared to move against the great Alegni.

He arrived at the bridge in short order, climbing the easy slope along the wyvern’s “spine” and taking pleasure in the way the mostly human folk of Neverwinter parted before him, scurrying to get far out of his way, every eye turning warily to his magnificent red-bladed sword, hung in a loop on his hip. He walked out to the bridge’s mid point, its high point, just behind the wing joints, and put his hands on the western stone railing, staring out to the other two bridges, the Dolphin and the Sleeping Dragon, while silently noting, with considerable enjoyment, how traffic on the Winged Wyvern had slowed.

It wasn’t just one of the many Netherese shades skulking about Neverwinter who had come out onto the bridge after all, but Herzgo Alegni himself.

Yes, he was quite pleased as he stood there, surveying the river and the coast, noting the disrepair showing on the lesser bridges, right up until the moment he heard the quiet voice behind him-somehow behind him, somehow unnoticed behind him. “You wished to see me?”

Alegni resisted the urge to draw his weapon and whirl on the man. Instead, he continued to stare straight ahead and answered, “You’re late.”

“Memnon is far to the south,” Barrabus the Gray replied. “Would you have me blow in the sails to speed the ship?”

“And if I said yes?”

“Then I would remind you that such a task is more fitting for those who fancy themselves royalty.”

The clever riposte had Alegni turning to regard the small man, and the warlord’s eyes widened at the sight. Dressed in black leather and cloth as always, with little ornamentation other than his diamond-shaped metal belt buckle that conveniently opened into a most vicious dagger, and a slight tilt to his stance, as if all the world bored him, Barrabus surely appeared as the assassin Herzgo had grown to know so well. But the man’s black hair had grown long and unkempt, and he wore a beard, of all things.

“Your discipline falters?” the tiefling asked. “After all these years?”

“What do you want?”

The warlord paused and leaned back, scrutinizing the killer more thoroughly. “Ah, Barrabus… You grow sloppy, slovenly, in the hope that your skills will fail and someone will kill you and release you from your torment.”

“If that were the case, I would kill you first.”

Herzgo Alegni laughed, but instinctively put a hand on his devastating sword. “But you cannot, can you?” he taunted. “As you cannot allow your considerable skills to lapse, as you have with your appearance. It is simply not in your character. Nay, perfection is your defense. You fool no one, Barrabus the Gray. Your slovenly appearance is naught but a ruse.”

The small man shifted from one foot to the other, the only confirmation-and more than he would ever typically offer-that Alegni’s words had struck close to the man’s heart.

“You summoned me from Memnon, where I was not idle,” Barrabus said. “What do you want?”

Alegni wore a clever little smirk as he turned to watch the flow of the Neverwinter River once more, draining into the great sea just north of the bustling docks. “This is a fine structure, both beautiful and functional, don’t you think?” he asked, not turning to regard the killer at all.

“It gets me across the river.”

“Beyond its utility,” the tiefling retorted.

Barrabus didn’t bother to answer.

“The beauty,” Alegni explained. “No simple abutments or pillars! Nay! Every one covered in small designs destined to complete the whole of the image. Yes, the true signature of the craftsmen. I do so love when craft becomes art. Do you not agree?”

Barrabus didn’t answer, and Alegni turned to look at him, and laughed.

“As with my sword,” the tiefling said. “Would you not agree that it is a most marvelous artwork?”

“Were its wielder as much the artist as he pretends, he would not need my services.”

Alegni’s shoulders sagged at the relentless sarcasm, but only momentarily. He turned again on the small man, his red eyes glowing with threat. “Consider yourself fortunate that I am bound by my superiors not to eviscerate you.”

“My good fortune knows no bounds. Now, I ask you again, why did you bring me here? To admire a bridge?”

“Yes,” Alegni answered. “This bridge. The Winged Wyvern Bridge. Its name does not suit it, and so I wish it changed.”

Barrabus looked at him, his expression unreadable.

“The lord of this fine city is a curious little creature,” Alegni explained. “Surrounded by guards and behind his stone walls, he does not understand how narrow is the ledge upon which he stands so high.”

“He won’t change the name?” Barrabus’s tone showed little interest.

“Such a traditionalist,” Alegni replied with a mock sigh. “He does not appreciate the simple suitability and beauty of the Alegni Bridge.”

“The Alegni Bridge?”

“Wonderful, do you not agree?”

“You summoned me from Memnon to convince a petty lord to rename a bridge in your honor?”

“I cannot go against him openly, of course,” said Alegni. “Our business in the forest progresses, and I’d not divert the resources.”

“And if you went against him openly, you would risk a war with the lords of Waterdeep. Your superiors would hardly be pleased with that.”

“You see, Barrabus, even the simple-minded can follow simple logic. Now, pay our esteemed Lord Hugo Babris a visit this night and explain to him that it would be in his interest to rename the bridge in my honor.”

“Then I can depart this swine kennel?”

“Oh, no, Gray, I have many more duties for you before I release you to your games back in the desert south. We have encountered some elves in the forest who need persuasion, and there are deep holes we’ve uncovered. I’d not send a true Shadovar into them until I am certain of their integrity and their occupants. You are here for years, my slave, unless I can persuade the princes that your trouble is not worth your value and thus be rid of you once and for all.”

Barrabus the Gray stared at the tiefling hatefully for a few heartbeats, his posture easy, his thumbs looped under his thin belt. With a disgusted shake of his head, he turned and started away.

As soon as the small man took his first steps, Herzgo Alegni reached under the edge of his open leather vest to a hidden sheath and drew forth a peculiar two-pronged implement. He reached back and tapped it against the side of his powerful, sentient sword, and it began to hum with residual vibrations and offered magic. Grinning wickedly, he waved it beside the hilt of his sword, as if awakening the beast within the blade.

Barrabus the Gray cringed and lurched to the side. His hands went out wide, folding into tight, white-knuckled fists. His jaw clenched so hard he was fortunate not to have bitten off part of his tongue.

The hum continued, the song of Claw, rolling through him like little waves of lava, boiling his blood.

Grimacing, trembling, he sank down to one knee.

Presenting the humming fork in front of him, Alegni walked around the man. He locked eyes with the dangerous killer for a short while then grasped the fork’s tines with his free hand, ceasing the hum, the conduit of the sword’s call, and the agony.

“Ah, Gray, why do you force me to keep reminding you of your place here?” the tiefling asked, his voice thick with regret, though thin with sincerity. “Can you not just accept your lot in life, and show gratitude for the gifts the Netherese have given you?”

Barrabus hung his hairy head low, trying to regain his sensibilities. When Alegni brought his hand under the man’s lowered face, Barrabus took it, and allowed the tiefling to help him back to his feet.

“There,” Alegni said. “I am not your enemy, I am your companion. And I am your superior. If you would commit that truth to memory, I would not have to continually remind you.”

Barrabus the Gray glanced at the tiefling only briefly then started away at a determined stride.

“Shave your beard and trim your hair!” Herzgo Alegni called behind him, a clear command, and a clear threat. “You look the part of a vagabond, and that will not do for one who serves the great Herzgo Alegni!”

“Elf, I got something!” Bruenor yelled, his voice echoing off the uneven stones of the cave complex’s walls. So that by the time it reached Drizzt’s ears, it sounded only as “Elf elf elf elf elf elf elf…”

The drow ranger lowered his torch and looked to the main corridor just outside the small side chamber in which he was working. He stepped out into the corridor as the dwarf called to him again. Drizzt smiled, recognizing from the tone that his friend wasn’t in any trouble. But looking at the catacombs in front of him, he realized he had no idea how to even begin looking for Bruenor.

He smiled again, thinking that maybe he did have a way. He pulled an onyx figurine from his belt pouch and called out, “Guenhwyvar.”

There was no insistence nor urgency, and barely any volume to his call, but he knew it had been heard even before gray mist began to swirl around him and take the shape of a great feline. It coagulated even more distinctly and darkened in hue, then Guenhwyvar stood beside him, as she had for more than a century.

“Bruenor’s in the caves, Guen,” the drow explained. “Go and find him.”

The black panther looked back at him, gave a little growl, and padded away.

“And sit on him when you do,” Drizzt called after her as he followed. “Make sure he doesn’t wander away before I arrive.”

Guenhwyvar’s next growl came a bit louder, and she picked up her pace, apparently more eager in her hunt because of the added instructions.

Down the main tunnel, Guenhwyvar froze in place, ears twitching as Bruenor’s next shout echoed. The panther moved to one side passage, sniffed the air, and darted to a different one. After only a brief pause, she leaped away.

Drizzt tried to keep up, but Guenhwyvar moved swiftly and sure-footedly, darting under overhangs the drow had to crouch to pass through and springing down side passages with confidence. The lagging Drizzt was left to guess at her choices.

They moved deeper into the narrow, crisscrossing tunnels, and when Drizzt next heard Bruenor’s yell, so full of outrage, he knew that Guenhwyvar had caught her prey.

“Ye durned elf!” Bruenor griped when Drizzt entered a sizable though low-ceilinged chamber, roughly square in shape and showing signs of some workmanship, as opposed to the natural cave tunnels that dominated the complex.

In the far corner, beside a dropped, low-burning torch, lay Guenhwyvar, calmly licking her paw, and Drizzt could just make out a pair of dwarven boots protruding from under her.

“A hunnerd years and ye still think it’s funny,” Bruenor said from the other side of the cat, and Drizzt could only guess that the dwarf’s head was wedged into a corner somewhere over there.

“I haven’t been able to keep up with you since the Tribe of Fifty Spears directed us to this place,” Drizzt replied.

“Ye think ye might send the cat away?”

“I welcome her company.”

“Then ye think ye might get the damn thing off o’ me?”

Drizzt motioned to Guenhwyvar, who stood up at once and headed his way, growling with every stride.

“Ye pointy-eared devil,” Bruenor grumbled, pulling himself to his knees.

He gathered up his one-horned helm and hopped to his feet, his horn nearly scraping the ceiling. Hands on hips, he turned and glared at the drow then muttered some more curses as he retrieved his torch.

“You moved more deeply in than we had agreed,” Drizzt remarked, dropping to sit cross-legged on the floor, rather than crouching low under the ceiling. “Deeper than we’d previously-”

“Bah, nothing’s in here,” said the dwarf. “Nothing big, anyway.”

“These tunnels are very old, and long unused,” Drizzt agreed and scolded all at once. “An old trap or a weak floor might have dropped you to the Middledark. I have warned you many times, my friend, do not underestimate the dangers of the Underdark.”

“Ye thinking there might be more tunnels below, are ye?”

“The possibility has entered my mind,” said Drizzt.

“Good!” said Bruenor, his face brightening. “Keep it there, and know it’s more than a possibility.” As he finished, he stepped aside and pointed to a crease in the apparently worked stone of the corner where he’d been working.

“More levels,” Bruenor said, pride clear in his tone. He reached over and pressed on the stone just to the side of the crease, and a sharp click came back in reply. As the dwarf moved his hand back, that portion of the wall popped out a bit, enough for Bruenor to grasp its edge and slide it farther out.

Drizzt crawled over, lifting his torch in front of him as he peered into the secret chamber. It wasn’t a large room, less than half the size of the outer one, and its floor was dominated by a small circle of rectangular stones-bricks?-forming a lip around a dark hole.

“Ye know what I be thinking,” Bruenor said.

“It’s not proof of anything more than… a well?” Drizzt replied.

“Something made that wall, made this room, and made that well,” said the dwarf.

“Something indeed, and there are many possibilities.”

“It’s dwarf work,” Bruenor insisted.

“And still that leaves many possibilities.”

“Bah!” Bruenor snorted and waved his hand dismissively at Drizzt.

Guenhwyvar jumped to her feet again and issued a long and low growl.

“Oh, shut yer maw!” Bruenor replied. “And don’t ye be threatenin’ me! Tell yer cat to shu-”

“Be silent!” Drizzt interrupted, waving his free hand, his eyes locked on Guenhwyvar, who continued to growl.

Bruenor glanced from drow to panther. “What d’ye know, elf?”

It arrived suddenly, a sharp roll of the floor, walls shaking, dust falling all around them.

“Quake!” Bruenor yelled, his voice tiny within the earthy rumble of grinding stones and falling blocks, and worse.

A second roll of the floor threw all of them into the air, Drizzt smacking hard against the doorjamb and Bruenor falling over backward.

“Come on, elf!” Bruenor yelled.

Drizzt was face down in the dirt and dust, his torch fallen aside. He started to pull himself to his hands and knees, but the blocks above him broke apart and tumbled down across his shoulders, laying him low.

Barrabus the Gray fished through the bag, tossing aside the various implements Herzgo Alegni had given him to “aid” in his craft. The assassin had to admit that the tiefling had some powerful friends and did indeed manage to gather many useful items-like the cloak Barrabus even then wore. Fine elven handiwork and enchantment were woven into every thread, and its dweomer aided in keeping the already stealthy Barrabus hidden from view. The same was true of the elven boots he wore and his ability to step silently in them, even through a field of dry leaves.

And of course, the belt-buckle dagger showed the very finest craftsmanship and enchantment. Never once had it failed to spring open to Barrabus’s command. Its poison delivery system, real human veins etched along the five-inch blade that pumped poison to the edges and the point, was one of the more remarkable weapons the assassin had ever carried. All Barrabus had to do was fill the “heart” of the knife, set in the hilt, and with the slightest of pressure, he could make that poison flow to its deadly blade.

Still, to Barrabus’s thinking, there was a danger to so many enhancements. His art, assassination, remained a test of skill, wisdom, and discipline. Reliance on too many magical aids could bring sloppiness, and sloppiness, he knew, would mean failure. Thus he had never worn the spider-climbing slippers Alegni had once offered him, nor the hat that allowed him to disguise himself nearly at will. And of course he had pushed aside the gender-altering girdle with a derisive snort.

He brought forth from the trunk a small coffer. The poisons inside it he had purchased himself; Barrabus would never allow a third party to deliver his most critical tools. He used only one poison merchant, an alchemist in Memnon he had known for many years, and who personally extracted the various toxins from desert snakes, spiders, lizards, and scorpions.

He lifted a small green phial before the candle and a wicked smile creased his face. It was a new one, and not of the desert. The toxin had come from the bay beyond Memnon’s docks, from a cleverly disguised, spiny fish. Woe to the fisherman who stepped on such a creature. Any who walked the beaches of the southern coastal regions had heard tales of the most exquisite screaming.

Barrabus held his knife hilt up. He flipped back the retractable bottom half of the ball counterweight at the base of the knife, revealing a hollow needle. Onto this he jabbed the rubber stopper of the phial. Barrabus’s eyes sparkled as he watched the translucent heart of the knife fill with the yellow liquid.

He thought of the fisherman’s screams, and almost felt guilty.

Almost.

When all was ready, Barrabus gathered up his cloak. He passed a small mirror on his way to the door and was reminded of Alegni’s order that he trim his beard and hair.

He walked out of the room, just another visitor to Neverwinter on a fine night with a warm sunset over the water, a simple, small man, walking openly and apparently unarmed. He had just one belt pouch, on his right hip, which lay flat against the side of his leg, seeming empty, though of course it was not.

He stopped at a nearby tavern-he didn’t know its name and didn’t care-to get a single drink of harsh BG rum, the Baldurian concoction that had become the favorite of sailors all along the Sword Coast since it was quite inexpensive, and tasted so wretched few would bother stealing it.

For Barrabus, who downed it in one gulp, the rum served as his transition, the moment when he moved himself into a higher state of being and consciousness, when all those years of training and expert work crystallized in his thoughts. He closed his eyes a few moments later and felt the inevitable cloudiness of downing so potent a drink, and refocused his attention many times over in tearing through that dullness, in coming to the very edge of preparedness.

“Ye want another?” the barkeep said to him.

“He’ll be on his back if he does!” one smelly brute insisted, to rowdy laughter from his three companions, all of whom outweighed Barrabus by a hefty amount.

Barrabus looked at the man with curiosity. The fool obviously didn’t understand that Barrabus was wondering if he might kill all four of the ruffians and still complete his task as planned.

“What’re ye thinking?” the man demanded.

Barrabus didn’t blink and didn’t let a hint of a smile, of any expression, come forth. He placed the glass down on the bar and started to walk away.

“Ah, but go ahead and have another,” one of the man’s friends said, stepping up beside Barrabus. “Let’s see if ye can swig it and still stand, eh?”

Barrabus did stop, for a heartbeat, but never bothered to look at the man.

And for that insult, the drunk shoved against Barrabus’s shoulder, or tried to. The moment his hand touched the assassin, Barrabus knifed his own hand up behind it, over it, and hooked the man’s thumb with his own then jerked down with such force that the ruffian lurched to the side and down, his hand twisted right over backward.

“Do you need two hands to pull fish into your boat?” Barrabus calmly asked him.

When the man tried to wriggle free instead of answering, Barrabus expertly added another quarter twist and re-angled his pressure just enough to keep his opponent from gaining any balance.

“I suppose you do, so for the sake of your family, I will forgive you this once.” With that, he let the man go. As the fool stumbled, Barrabus started for the door.

“I got no family!” the man shouted at him, as if that was some kind of insulting retort, and Barrabus heard the charge.

He turned at the last moment, his hands coming up to deflect the awkward grabs of the drunken fool, his knee coming up to abruptly halt the man’s bull rush. The many tavern patrons watching the incident weren’t sure what happened, just that the ruffian had stopped suddenly and was clenched with the much smaller man.

“And likely now you’ll never have one,” Barrabus whispered to the man. “And the world will be a better place.”

He gently moved the man back and even helped him regain his balance, though the man’s stare was blank and his thoughts surely spinning as his hands moved center and down as he bent, trembling fingers trying to help secure his crushed testicles.

Barrabus paid him no heed and just walked out of the tavern. He heard a crash as he exited, and knew that the fool had tumbled. Then he heard, predictably, the outrage of the man’s three companions as the shock of his bold move wore thin.

They burst out onto the street, all spit and curses, leaping up and down, looking this way and that and shouting into the empty night. They shook their fists and promised revenge, but went back inside.

Sitting atop the tavern, legs dangling over the edge of the rooftop, Barrabus just watched and sighed at their utterly predictable idiocy.

He was at the lord’s grand four-story home soon after, in the shadows and trees behind the back of the house. Hugo Babris was a careful man, it seemed, and Barrabus was surprised to see so many guards patrolling the grounds and moving along the balconies. Barrabus had seen that sort of thing before, where a leader perceived as weak had surrounded himself with substantial protection. What that usually meant, the assassin knew, was that the leader served as a mouthpiece, a puppet, for the true powers behind him, though what those powers might be in the strange and fast-growing city of Neverwinter, Barrabus could not be certain. Pirates, likely, or a merchants’ guild getting fat off the policies of Lord Hugo Babris. Certainly someone was paying a hefty sum to provide that level of protection.

Barrabus glanced around, thinking that perhaps he should be on his way. He understood why Herzgo Alegni had gone out of his way to send for him, but it occurred to him that perhaps the tiefling had set him up to fail.

With that thought in mind, Barrabus moved, but not away. He wouldn’t give Alegni the satisfaction.

The assassin slithered up the wall and peered into the courtyard, noting one patrol in particular, a pair of guards each with a very large, angry-looking dog.

“Wonderful,” he silently mouthed.

Back down the wall, he walked a perimeter outside of the compound several times. He saw only one possible approach. A tree hung its branches into Hugo Babris’s compound, though getting from the branch to the house would require a great leap, and that to the edge of a patrolled balcony.

Again, Barrabus thought it might be time to go speak with Herzgo Alegni.

And again, the thought of admitting any limitations to the tiefling had him moving up the wall onto the tree, and up to the higher branches. He paused and noted movement in the courtyard and on the balconies, marking the moment of greatest opportunity. It seemed desperate, ridiculous even, but that was ever the way of it.

He ran out on the branch and leaped out, coming to the edge of the second story balcony at the corner of the house. He ducked back behind the corner when the sentry came around the opposite corner. Barrabus was tucked tightly underneath the balcony as the man paced past, then he was over the rail and up the wall, over the next balcony, and continuing until he sat on a narrow window sill on the highest floor.

He reached into his “empty” pouch, which was actually an extra-dimensional space, and brought forth a pair of suction cups set on narrow poles and joined end to end by a small cord. Once he had them in place on the window glass, he tapped open a catch on one of his rings that released a line of wire, attached on one end to the ring and capped on the other end with a diamond tip.

Barrabus began to draw a circle on the window with the diamond tip, etching the glass a tiny bit more with each rotation. He worked furiously, hid himself as the guards crossed below, then went right back. It took him many, many heartbeats to weaken the glass enough so that he could hold the suction cups and tap lightly, three times, to break the circle of glass free. He pushed the cut circle into the room and gently lowered it to the floor so that it leaned against the wall. With a glance around to make sure the room was clear, Barrabus hooked his fingers on the top of the window frame, gracefully and powerfully lifted his legs, and slid them through.

He rocked back, his feet almost exiting the hole, then went forward with such speed and grace that his momentum carried him fully through without so much as a brush of the remaining glass, and not so much as a whisper of sound.

He knew that the fun had only begun, of course-Hugo Babris kept many guards inside as well-but he was committed. His focus grew narrow and pure, and it was as though he were a ghost; ethereal, silent, and invisible. He had to be perfect, and that was why Herzgo Alegni had summoned only him.

It was said of Barrabus the Gray that he could stand in the middle of a room unnoticed, but of course the man’s trick was that he didn’t stand in the middle of the room. He knew where alert sentries would look, and so he knew where not to be. Whether the optimum hiding place was behind the open door or above it, behind a canopy or in front of one, in the right place to appear as no more than another figure in a mural, Barrabus knew it and found it. How many times over the decades had a sentry simply looked right past him?

Hugo Babris had guards-so many guards that Barrabus changed his mind about how he might influence the man’s thinking-but not enough guards to do more than slow the inexorable progress of Barrabus the Gray.

Soon enough, he sat atop the back of an unconscious sentry who was sprawled across Lord Hugo Babris’s desk. Barrabus stared at the nervous, trapped, helpless lord.

“Take the gold and go, I-I beg of you,” Hugo Babris pleaded. The lord was a bald, round, thoroughly unimpressive little man, and that only reinforced Barrabus’s belief that he was no more than a front for far more dangerous men.

“I don’t want your gold.”

“Please… I have a child.”

“I don’t care.”

“She needs her father.”

“I don’t care.”

The lord brought a trembling hand to his lips, as though he was going to be sick.

“What I want of you is simple, simply done, and at no cost-nay, but at great gain-to you,” Barrabus explained. “It’s a simple matter of changing the name of a bridge.”

“Herzgo Alegni sent you!” Hugo Babris exclaimed and started out of his chair. He reversed direction immediately, falling back and throwing his hands up in front of him when a knife appeared in Barrabus’s hands, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I cannot!” Hugo Babris whined. “I told him I couldn’t. The Lords of Waterdeep would never-”

“You have no choice,” Barrabus said.

“But the lords, and the pirate captains to the n-”

“Are not here, while Herzgo Alegni and his shades are-while I am,” said Barrabus. “You need to recognize the gain, and understand the potential loss resulting from inaction.”

Hugo Babris shook his head and started to protest further, but Barrabus cut him short. “You have no choice. I can come here anytime I wish. Your sentries are of no concern to me. Are you afraid to die?”

“No!” Lord Hugo Babris said with more resolve than the assassin would have imagined him capable of mustering.

Barrabus rolled his dagger in his hand, letting Hugo Babris see the veins. “Have you ever heard of the rockstinger?” he asked. “It is an ugly fish possessed of a beautiful and perfect defense.” He hopped from the desk. “You will announce the Herzgo Alegni Bridge tomorrow.”

“I cannot,” Hugo Babris wailed.

“Oh, you can,” said Barrabus.

He flashed the knife near to Hugo Babris, who shrank back pitifully. But Barrabus didn’t stick him. Long experience had taught the assassin that the anticipation of pain provided more incentive than the pain itself.

He turned and lightly poked the unconscious sentry, just a gentle stick, but one that delivered the rockstinger venom.

He offered a nod to Lord Hugo Babris and said again, “I can return to you anytime I wish. Your sentries are of no concern to me.”

He strode from the room, disappearing into the hall, and was halfway out the hole in the window when the poison jolted the sentry from his semi-conscious daze. The man’s agonized screams brought a resigned sigh to Barrabus.

The assassin countered a wave of self-loathing with a silent promise that one day, Herzgo Alegni would feel the bite of the rockstinger.

Guenhwyvar clamped her teeth around Drizzt’s cloak and leather vest and pulled hard, her great claws screeching on the stone.

“Tug,” Bruenor instructed as he pushed another block of stone away. “Come on, elf!”

The dwarf managed to wriggle a hand under the heaviest stone, one too great to be hoisted aside. He set his strong legs under him, straddling Drizzt, hooked both his hands under the block, and lifted with all his strength.

“Tug,” he implored Guenhwyvar, “afore another roll o’ the stone!”

As soon as the pressure eased, Guenhwyvar dragged Drizzt free, and the drow came to his knees.

“Go on!” Bruenor yelled at him. “Get yerself away!”

“Drop the stone!” Drizzt shouted back at him.

“Whole ceiling’ll fall!” the dwarf protested. “Go on!”

Drizzt knew Bruenor meant it, that his oldest friend would gladly give his life to save Drizzt’s.

“Go! Go!” the dwarf implored, grunting under the strain.

Unfortunately for Bruenor, Drizzt felt the same way toward his friend, and the dwarf yelped in surprise when he felt the dark elf’s hand grab the back of his hair.

“Wha-?” he started to protest.

The drow yanked Bruenor hard, pulling him back from the rubble and right around, then shoving him down the corridor behind the retreating Guenhwyvar.

“Go! Go!” Drizzt yelled, scrambling after him as the stones tumbled and the ceiling groaned in protest, then cracked apart.

The trio ran one step ahead of catastrophe all along that corridor, stones and dust pouring down right behind them all the way. Guenhwyvar led them true, down a side passage to a chute, where the panther leaped straight up the dozen feet to the next level. Bruenor skidded to a stop right below the shaft, turned, and set his hands. Drizzt never broke stride, stepping in and lifting away as Bruenor heaved him upward. Drizzt caught the floor of the next level and secured his grip even as Bruenor grabbed onto his legs. Guenhwyvar bit Drizzt’s ruffled cloak and vest again, tugging with all of her considerable strength.

On they went, with a century of knowledge, coordination, and most of all friendship showing them the way. They spilled out of the cave mouth as another aftershock rolled through the area. Clouds of dust rushed out behind them, and the roar of the catastrophe deep within echoed around them.

Just a few strides from the cave mouth, they collapsed side by side on a patch of grass, sitting and panting, and staring back at the cave that had almost been their tomb.

“Lot o’ digging to do,” Bruenor lamented.

Drizzt just started to laugh-what else could he say or do?-and Bruenor looked at him curiously for just a moment before joining in. The drow rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky, laughing still at the ridiculous idea that an earthquake had almost done what thousands of enemies had failed to do. What a ridiculous ending for Drizzt Do’Urden and King Bruenor Battlehammer, he thought.

After a while, he lifted his head to regard Bruenor, who had walked to the cave opening and stood staring into the darkness, hands on his hips.

“That’s it, elf,” the dwarf decided. “I’m knowin’ it, and we got a lot o’ digging to do.”

“Roll on, Bruenor Battlehammer,” Drizzt whispered, a litany he had recited for a hundred years and more. “And know to your pleasure that every monster along our trail will mark well your passing and keep its head safely hidden.”

From the corner of a building farther down the avenue, Barrabus the Gray watched a bloodied man stumble out of the tavern, followed closely by four familiar ruffians. The poor victim fell face down on the cobblestones and the group waded past him, alternately kicking him and spitting on him. Two of them hit him with their clubs, newly extracted from the legs of a table. One even reached down with a small knife and stuck the man repeatedly in the buttocks and the backs of his legs. But another stood off to the side, cursing, limping, one hand waving a table-leg club, the other held between his own legs.

Barrabus paid little attention to the details, and heard not the man’s pitiful cries. In his mind, Barrabus still heard the screams of the sentry at Lord Hugo Babris’s house, rockstinger poison coursing through him like sharp-edged fire. He would be well into the second phase of the poison by then, his muscles contracting painfully, his stomach knotted, vomiting still though he had nothing left to discharge. The morning would bring to him a tremendous weariness and a dull ache, both of which would last for days. Whether the sentry deserved such a trial, Barrabus could not know. The man’s only “crime” had been to arrive at Hugo Babris’s door soon after Barrabus had entered the chamber. That, and a bit too much curiosity…

The assassin sneered and shook the unwelcome notions from his thoughts. He turned back to the foursome, coming his way, though they couldn’t see him in the shadow of the building.

Good sense told Barrabus to fade back into the alleyway, to be gone from that place. Prudence demanded that he attract no unwanted attention in Neverwinter. But he felt dirty at that dark hour, and so he felt the need to be cleansed.

“Well met, again,” he said as the gang of four came up even with him out in the middle of the road. They turned as one to regard him, and he pulled back the cowl of his elven cloak to give them a clear view.

“You!” exclaimed the one he’d earlier pained.

Barrabus smiled and faded back into the alleyway.

The four, three brandishing crude clubs, the fourth with a knife, rushed in after him, roaring in outrage and promising retribution, though one staggered more than rushed. Three of them entered the alley at full speed, not even realizing that Barrabus had only faded in a couple of steps and was in no way trying to get away from them. How the timbre of their obscenities changed when he appeared in their midst, all elbows and fists and flying feet.

Just a few moments later, Barrabus the Gray walked out of the alley onto the dimly lit Neverwinter street, and not a groan followed him forth.

He felt better. He felt cleaner. Those four had deserved it.