The Last Threshold

Chapter 8

Effron didn’t much like the snow, and the Sword Coast was seeing more than its share of the wintry precipitation as the turn to the Year of the Six-armed Elf neared. He had returned to check in on the progress or retreat of the Thayans, as his master had demanded. Lord Draygo had told him to be thorough and not anxious, and the old warlock’s insistence that this mission was important had resonated with Effron, all the more so because he knew that showing his loyalty to Draygo Quick and his competence in carrying out these demands would likely be rewarded.

For all of his desperation to pay back Dahlia, Effron understood that he couldn’t manage any such thing alone. She was surrounded by powerful allies, and he would need a powerful response. The resources and personal power of Lord Draygo Quick would more than suffice.

So Effron had faithfully gone into Neverwinter Wood once again, and had thoroughly scouted and spied upon the remnants of the Thayan force, particularly the lich known as Valindra Shadowmantle. The Ashmadai were scattered and leaderless, posing no threat at all to the city or to any of Draygo Quick’s ambitions in this area, if he held any. It didn’t take Effron very long to realize that his previous report to Lord Draygo had been correct, for he saw nothing of Valindra Shadowmantle to indicate anything other than sheer insanity. The lich wandered out from her treelike tower on occasion and meandered through the forest paths calling for Arklem Greeth or Dor’crae, and rarely speaking either name correctly and without some insane stutter, wailing and keening, and occasionally throwing a bolt of purplish-black necromantic energy at a tree or a bird for no reason whatsoever.

Effron figured that she would be caught by the citizen garrison of Neverwinter soon enough and properly dispatched.

He turned his eyes away from Valindra and the Thayans then, but lurked around the forest. Now he looked toward Neverwinter. Every time he noted activity near the city gates, he peered closely and anxiously, as if he expected Dahlia to walk into view. And what would he do if that came to pass, he had to ask himself?

Would he hold to his promise to Draygo Quick of restraint and patience?

He told himself that he would, that he had to be careful with his father Herzgo Alegni gone. More than once, though, he wondered if he was lying to himself.

On the morning he had determined to be his last day near the city, Effron walked a perimeter outside the wall, finding empty regions by which he could travel deeper into the place with his wraith form and other various methods of magical invisibility.

By late morning, he had covered most of the perimeter, and had ventured into the city four separate times, and with still a lot of wall yet to scout. He almost quit and simply took to the north road, growing convinced that Dahlia had indeed departed, as Lord Draygo had hinted.

“I would never have thought you foolish enough to return here, unless it was at the head of an army,” a voice whispered from behind him barely a few heartbeats after he had convinced himself to continue his last look around.

Effron froze in place, plotting spell combinations and contingencies, either to get away or to strike out hard, for he knew that voice, and more importantly, he knew the diabolical truth behind it.

“Come now, young tiefling, we need not be enemies,” the red-haired woman said.

“Yet I remember your presence in the ranks of my enemies in the square near the bridge that day,” Effron reminded her.

“Well, I didn’t say I would let you conquer my city,” the woman replied. “Have you returned with such intentions? If so, please do tell that I might be done with you now.”

“You underestimate my skills.”

“You know the truth of mine,” she replied.

Effron spun around to regard her. She seemed so plain and calm, nondescript, even. She exuded motherhood at that moment, and it occurred to Effron that he wished he had been blessed with such a mother. Warm and comforting, someone to hold him close and tell him that everything would turn out well …

The twisted warlock laughed at himself and shook that notion away. This was Arunika. Arunika was a devil, a succubus from the Nine Hells, wearing the mantle of a simple and gentle red-haired woman with a slightly freckled face. An ordinary citizen of Neverwinter, just going about her daily chores as any good human might.

“You are hunting Barrabus and that sword,” Arunika remarked.

It occurred to Effron that perhaps she didn’t know everything after all.

“What do you know of him?” Effron asked. “And of his companions?” he quickly added, trying not to sound too obvious.

“Why would I tell you?”

Effron ran his good hand between his horns and scratched at his purple hair. It was a good question, he had to admit.

“I have information you will wish to hear,” Effron offered a few moments later.

“Do tell.”

“Well, that is the whole point, isn’t it?”

Arunika laughed at him. “I’ve already established that I know that you know.”

“Not that, devil.”

“I should kill you for torturing my imp,” Arunika remarked. “Not for the sake of the imp, of course, but because of the breach of protocol. Invidoo is my property, and so I demand recompense. Tell me your secret, twisted warlock.”

“I will,” Effron promised. “And you tell me of Barrabus.”

“I owe you nothing.”

“But what harm in telling me? Surely you don’t hold any loyalty to Barrabus the Gray, and certainly not to his companion, this drow ranger. Indeed, should Drizzt learn the truth of Arunika, he would chase you from the land.”

Her expression revealed her unpleasant surprise at that thinly veiled threat. “Then I should make sure I destroy anyone else who might betray that secret. Is that your point?”

Now Effron laughed, but it was an uncomfortable ploy.

“I would not tell him … anything,” the twisted warlock said. “Nor Barrabus and the other, Dahlia. You witnessed the fight on the bridge when Herzgo Alegni was driven from this land. Effron is no friend to those three, I assure you. But I have mentioned the truth of Arunika to others among my Netherese brethren, including several lords who would not take well your threats against me. Beware, succubus, else you tempt the wrath of Netheril.”

Arunika stared at him hard, and yet, even in that look, there remained something so very appealing about this creature.

“But there is no need for any of this,” Effron insisted. “We are not enemies, or should not be. Netheril will not return to Neverwinter. We have no reason to care, with the Thayan threat destroyed.”

“Netheril was here before there was a Thayan threat to Neverwinter,” Arunika reminded him.

“True enough,” Effron admitted. “Our work was in the forest, and indeed, we may return to that place, but with no designs on ruling the city. It is not our place. It brings unwanted attention. So there, that is my secret, offered in friendship.”

“And offered before you exacted your demand.”

“All I ask is for you to guide me along the proper road to find Barrabus and his companions,” Effron replied. “And why would you not? Should they return to Neverwinter, they’ll not befriend Arunika, and should they ever determine the truth of your identity, they will seek to destroy you. So what do I ask of you that will not benefit you?”

Arunika laughed again. “I do so enjoy the play of mortals,” she said. “With their foolish impatience as they scramble to make a legacy that will not last, no matter how many they kill.”

Effron started to respond to that confusing statement, but Arunika waved him to silence.

“There is a band of highwaymen along the road just a few days north of here. If you make yourself conspicuous enough, they will likely find you.”

“Would that be a good thing?” he asked after considering Arunika’s words, and considering why she might have spoken them.

Arunika smiled sweetly-too sweetly. “Find the highwaymen and you will learn much of Barrabus and his friends,” she said.

Effron thought of going back to the Shadowfell and letting Draygo Quick guide him to a more advantageous location back on Toril, but part of his mission, likely the most important part, was to learn the lay of the land around their prey.

So off he went. He had enough supplies for a tenday, at least. He had gone through almost half of those supplies before he came upon another person, a score of miles and more north of Neverwinter.

“Halt and be counted,” the woman demanded, stepping out into the snow-covered trail before him, two large men at her side.

“If you are a guard, pray tell from what town?” Effron replied innocently. Arunika’s words echoed in his thoughts. “I am not familiar with this region.”

“If you were, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to be traveling the roads alone,” the woman replied with a rather sinister grin. She nodded to the thugs flanking her and both began a steady advance.

Effron didn’t flinch, and even smiled, which had the two men, both much larger than he, glancing at each other.

“Then the only question that remains,” the small warlock remarked, “is whether I should sting you and chase you away, or simply kill you and be done with it.” He shrugged and let his useless arm swing weirdly behind him, using it to further press the idea that he wasn’t the least bit intimidated.

An arrow whipped out of the trees to the side of the road, speeding straight for the warlock, but Effron was, of course, magically defended against such attacks and his shield of magical energy deflected the arrow enough so that it whipped just a hair’s breadth from his face-and had he not instinctively turned aside, the missile would have likely taken a bit of his nose with it.

“The latter, I think,” he calmly stated.

“Port Llast has little to offer,” Dorwyllan told Drizzt and the others when he found them gearing up for the road.

“Ye’re here,” Ambergris replied dryly.

“Why thank you, good dwarf,” the grinning elf said with an exaggerated bow.

“Not what I’m meanin’!” Ambergris insisted, but she couldn’t keep the toothy smile wholly off her face against Dorwyllan’s clever retort.

The elf tossed her a wink. “I am here out of loyalty to these people who have stood so fiercely for their homes and their place in the world. I have lived here for many decades. My friendships go back generations to some of the families of Port Llast. A sorry friend I would be indeed if I were to now desert them.”

“Perhaps that is what makes Port Llast attractive then,” said Drizzt. “A sense of loyalty and friendship and common cause. Community is no small thing.”

Dorwyllan grew serious as he explained, “It will take more than that to displace others that they might come to join in this community, don’t you think? The quarry, the reason for the founding of the city in the first place, is not nearly as rich now, with most of the valuable stones and metals already taken. It can supply some trade, likely, but not enough to support any sizable city.

“The tides no longer favor Port Llast,” he went on, and he nodded out to the west, to the sea. “The changes after the Spellplague have greatly reduced Port Llast’s position as a vibrant seaport, and with Neverwinter rebuilding and Luskan to the north, I do not see the advantage of trying to strengthen the port in any significant way.”

“Perhaps you should campaign to be chosen as mayor of the town,” Afafrenfere remarked sarcastically. “Your words have convinced me to stay.”

“Grim truth, spoken among those who have earned the truth,” Dorwyllan replied. “There is trade and some profit to be found in the sea, if we can drive off the minions of Umberlee. Plentiful food, and some considered delicacies, and rightly so. But Neverwinter and Luskan and Waterdeep can all claim the same, so I am at a loss to understand what might lure enough people to Port Llast to secure our land and attempt to return the city to any sort of prosperity.”

“For those who already have community, I would agree,” said Drizzt.

“If you are speaking of your troupe here, then know that-” Dorwyllan started to reply, but Dahlia cut him short.

“Stuyles,” she said, figuring it all out. “You’re talking about farmer Stuyles. And Meg, the woman on the farm outside of Luskan. And the fool butcher who almost cut off my foot!”

“He was trying to save you,” Drizzt quietly reminded her.

“Might be tasty,” Ambergris added lightheartedly, and Afafrenfere giggled.

Dorwyllan wore a perplexed expression.

“The castoffs,” Drizzt explained to the elf. “Those who farmed the regions outside of Luskan, and under the protection of Luskan before the City of Sails fell to disrepair.”

“That was a century ago,” Dorwyllan said.

“The rot was longer in spreading from Luskan’s walls,” Drizzt said. “The farms became less important to the pirates, and so Luskan grew more likely to send forth raiders than a protective militia. But some of the folk outside the city remain in their ancient homes, though they are sorely pressed, and with nowhere else to go.”

“And some are on the roads around your own village,” Dahlia added.

Drizzt glared at her, but that only made Dahlia grin.

“On the roads?” Dorwyllan asked, and his tone showed Drizzt that he had not missed the silent exchange between Drizzt and Dahlia. “Refugees? There are no refugees. Or do you mean highwaymen?”

“Given what you’re asking, they deserve the truth,” Dahlia stated before Drizzt could formulate an appropriately diplomatic response. Again he cast a glance her way, trying to look more disappointed this time.

“They live in the wilderness,” Drizzt explained. “They are not bad sorts, but surely desperate ones, former farmers, former craftsmen, cast to the wilds by the entrenched powers of the Sword Coast. Luskan used to protect these communities, but now the high captains view them with indifference at best, or even as enemies, and to these desperate folk, the high captains are regarded no more highly than orc bosses.”

“I cannot disagree with that assessment,” Dorwyllan remarked.

“Then you understand?”

“Highwaymen? I would shoot them dead if I encountered them on the road with little consequences of guilt.”

“So I thought of myself,” Drizzt said dryly. “And yet, when I had the chance to punish them, I did not, and when I did not, I came to understand the deeper truth behind this particular group of desperate folk.”

“They could have gone to Neverwinter, you understand?” Dorwyllan said. “The settlers of that town seek additional citizens almost as desperately as we do here in Port Llast.”

“The Shadovar were there, with the Thayans lurking around the forest.”

“Now you are merely making excuses.”

Drizzt nodded solemnly. “They are in need of a home, and you are in need of citizens. Capable citizens, which these folk have proven themselves to be by the mere fact that they and their families have survived the wilds of the Sword Coast without the benefits of walls and garrisons. Do I go to them, or not?”

“I don’t speak for Port Llast.”

“Don’t play such semantic games with me.”

Dorwyllan let his gaze drift to the right, overlooking the still mostly empty city, the new wall, and the threatening sea beyond.

“I will say nothing of this conversation,” the elf quietly remarked.

When Drizzt glanced at Dahlia this time, he was the one wearing the smile.

“Need I remind you that the last time we dealt with Farmer Stuyles, we wound up in a desperate battle in the forest against a legion devil and its minions?” Dahlia asked when Dorwyllan had departed.

“Ah, but that’s not soundin’ good,” Ambergris remarked.

Entreri snickered, drawing Drizzt’s gaze, and when he had it, the assassin pointedly shook his head and looked away.

“Stuyles and the others knew nothing about Hadencourt’s true identity,” Drizzt argued.

“You have to believe that, don’t you?” said Dahlia, and she snorted derisively.

The drow’s smile was no more, even though he believed his claims. These two, ever cynical, would not allow him to hold fast to hope. In their cynical view of the world, he was a foolish idealist, unable to face the harsh realities of life in the shadowy Realms.

It occurred to Drizzt that they could be right, of course. In fact, hadn’t that been the very weight he had been dragging along like a heavy chain around his ankles for years now, back far before Bruenor’s death, even?

“No,” he heard himself replying to Dahlia. He stood up from his seat, painted a determined expression on his face, and spoke clearly and loudly and with all confidence. “I say that because I know it to be almost certainly true.”

“Because the world is full of good people?”

Drizzt nodded. “Most,” he answered. “And forcing them into untenable choices is no way to measure morality. Stuyles and his band do not hunger for blood, but for food.”

“Unless there are more devils among them,” Dahlia interrupted. “Have you considered that possibility?”

“No,” Drizzt replied, but it wasn’t so much an admission as a denial of the entire premise.

Dahlia moved as if to respond, but chortled and looked to Entreri instead, and Drizzt, too, found himself turning to regard the assassin.

Entreri looked away from Dahlia and returned that look to Drizzt, and he nodded his support to Drizzt, albeit slightly.

“I could have killed you all,” Effron pointed out to the four battered and reeling highwaymen. “Be reasonable.”

“Ye put spiders under me skin!” said one man, the archer who had nearly killed Effron with the first shot.

Effron looked at him and grinned wickedly. “Are you sure you got them all out? Or are others even now laying their eggs?”

The man’s eyes widened in horror and he began scratching and rubbing his skin raw, as much as possible given the bindings Effron had placed upon all four, tying them together, back-to-back. The man’s frantic shuffling had his companion to either side shoving back with annoyance, to Effron’s great amusement.

“Not funny,” the woman insisted, wisps of black smoke still wafting from her clothing.

“You attacked me,” Effron replied. “Does that not matter? Am I to apologize for not allowing you to murder me?”

“We weren’t meaning to murder anyone!” the woman insisted.

Effron nodded at the frantic, whining archer. “His first shot would have slain me had I not come prepared with magical defenses.”

“He’s not so good a shot, then,” said one of the larger thugs.

“Just supposed to scare you,” the woman said.

“You would do well, then, to hire better archers. For this fool has surely doomed you.” Effron paused there and walked around to directly face the woman, who seemed the leader of the band, striking a pensive pose with the index finger of his good hand against his pursed lips. “Unless-” he teased.

“What do you want?” the woman demanded. “You already have our gear and our few coins.”

“Which I will happily give back,” the twisted warlock explained, “if you let me join your band.”

“Join?”

“Is that too difficult a concept for you to grasp?”

“You want to join in with us?”

Effron sighed profoundly.

“Why?”

“Why?” Effron echoed, then realized that he was acting much like the fool sitting before him. “I am without companionship in a land I do not know. I have no home and it is winter. I could have killed each of you-I still can do so, and quite easily-but to what gain? None to you, obviously, and merely a pleasurable diversion for me. Practically speaking, I am much better off with companions who know the lay of the land.”

“You’re a half-devil Shadovar, and a magic-user,” said the thug.

“Do you doubt my potential value?”

“But why?” asked the woman. “Surely you’ve got better opportunities before you.”

Effron laughed. “I don’t even know where I am. So take me in. You will find that my skills will help you with your little roadside endeavors, at the least.”

The woman started to answer, but bit back the response and looked past Effron, cueing him in to the new arrivals before one of them even spoke.

“It is not her call to make,” said a man’s voice.

Effron turned around to see a group moving into position all about, forming a semicircle around him and the captives.

“Ah, so you have friends,” he said to the woman.

“They’re going to kill ye to death!” the archer insisted.

Effron turned to him, grinned, and said, “The spiders will still be in there.”

The man whimpered and went back to his frantic scratching and jostling.

“You move away from them, then, and we’ll hear you out,” said the newcomer, a middle-aged man of considerable girth and a ruddy and grizzled appearance, stubbles of white and gray beard roughening up his heavily-jowled face.

Effron looked at the group and snorted, as if they hardly mattered to the equation.

“If you move aside from them, I guarantee your safety here,” the man said.

“Do you think that matters?” Effron replied. “I assure you that I’m not in any danger, whether I walk away from them or slay them where they sit.”

The man stared hard at him.

“But I’ll not slay them, of course! I did not come here to make enemies, but to find a place, for I fear that I have none. I admit it, I am an outlaw, banished from the Shadowfell because I do not much enjoy the workings of the Empire of Netheril,” he improvised, taking an educated guess that the Empire of Netheril wasn’t much appreciated by this band of highwaymen. “Had I remained, they would have probably killed me, or thrown me into a dungeon, and I found neither option appealing.” He looked over at the four prisoners. “Would you have me then?” he asked of the newcomers. “You heard my request of your companions. Do I not deserve at least a trial for the mercy I have shown this group? I would have been well within my rights by the law of this or any other land to slay them on the road and continue on my way, after all. They attacked me, not the other way around. And yet, look, they live.”

“Just kill him!” the thrashing archer said.

Effron laughed. “Next time, aim better!” he answered the man. “Either kill your foe or, if it is your intent to miss, then actually miss, that I might have seen your shot as a warning and not a lethal attack. And do quit scratching. There are no more spiders.”

The poor man didn’t know which way to turn, so it seemed, and still he squirmed and still he whimpered.

The grizzled leader and his companions conferred privately for a moment, then he came forward to Effron, his hand extended. “Stuyles, at your service,” he said. “You can put up your tent with us for the winter, at least. A sorry band of ne’er-do-wells we’d be to throw out one wandering the roads alone.”

Effron took the man’s hand and gave a weak shake. He started to offer his name, but bit it back. Only for a moment, though, as he realized that he had nothing to lose by offering his real name, since his unique appearance alone would surely scream out his identity to anyone learning of him.

“Farmer Stuyles!” Drizzt called every few strides. He rode down the path upon Andahar, the unicorn’s magical bell barding singing gaily and bringing some brightness to the overcast sky, clouds heavy with snow. Beside him rode Entreri, astride his nightmare. The assassin hadn’t said much in the two days since they’d left Port Llast, but neither had he complained, and to Drizzt, that alone spoke volumes. Entreri’s silent nod to him back in the city had been an affirmation of Drizzt’s plan.

Directly behind the pair rambled a wagon, borrowed from Port Llast and pulled by a pair of strong mules. Ambergris drove with Afafrenfere sitting beside her and Dahlia half sat, half stood on a pile of sacks full of seafood. They had come bearing gifts, but even in the cold weather, Drizzt feared that the food wouldn’t stay fresh long enough to be of use to anyone.

“Farmer Stuyles!” Drizzt yelled again. “Are you about, man? I come bearing-”

“Ye best be holdin’ right there!” a low, rumbling voice called back to him.

Drizzt and Entreri pulled up and Ambergris stopped the wagon.

“These your friends?” Entreri quietly asked.

Drizzt shrugged.

“Leave the wagon and your pretty mounts and start walkin’ back the way ye come,” the voice roared.

“I expect not, then,” said Entreri.

Drizzt held up his hand for the others to be quiet and he shifted in his seat, this way and that, trying to catch a glimpse of the would-be robber.

“We have come in search of Farmer Stuyles and his band of highwaymen,” Drizzt called. “Come as friends and not enemies. Come with gifts of food and good ale, and not to be stolen, but to be given.”

“Well give ’em, then, and yer pretty horses too, and get yerself gone!”

“That won’t happen,” Drizzt assured the speaker, and he had determined by then that the ruffian was settled in a low rut to the right side of the trail, obscured by a small stand of aspen. “I wish to speak with Stuyles. Tell him that Drizzt Do’Urden has returned.”

“Well enough, then,” came a voice from behind the wagon, and all five turned to see a trio of highwaymen step out of the brush and onto the road. Two held bows, but they were not drawn, and the third, between them, sheathed his sword and approached with a wide smile.

“Last chance to walk away, elf!” boomed the voice up ahead.

“Enough, Skinny!” called the swordsman behind the wagon. “These are friends, you fool!” He walked around the wagon, nodded to Dahlia with obvious recognition as he passed, and moved up beside Drizzt’s mount.

The drow dismounted, remembering the man from the campfire months before, when he had told his stories to Stuyles’s crew in exchange for some food, shelter, and companionship.

“Well met, again,” the man said, extending his hand.

Drizzt took the hand, but wore a perplexed and apologetic expression. “I do not remem-”

“Don’t know that I ever offered it,” the man interrupted. “Kale Denrigs at your service.”

“Skinny?” they heard Entreri ask, and they turned as one to regard him, then followed his gaze along the road, where half a dozen others had convened, including, it seemed, the previous speaker, a man of gigantic height and girth, indeed one who more resembled a hill giant than a man.

“Half-ogre,” Kale explained. “But a good enough sort.”

That brought a laugh from Ambergris on the wagon.

“Is Stuyles about?” Drizzt asked.

“Not far.”

“We come bearing food and other supplies, and with news to benefit your band.”

“Recompense for Hadencourt?” Kale Denrigs asked, and he assumed a clever look.

“You should be paying us for Hadencourt,” Dahlia called from the wagon.

“What’s a Hadencourt?” Afafrenfere asked.

“Nah, who,” Ambergris corrected.

“Both,” said Dahlia. “Hadencourt the legion devil, harbored by Farmer Stuyles’s band.”

“Wonderful,” Entreri muttered.

“The what?” Kale asked.

“Legion devil,” Drizzt repeated. “He came after us in the forest, and he brought friends from the Nine Hells to make his case.”

“And they’re all back in the Nine Hells where they belong,” Dahlia said.

“Hadencourt? Our Hadencourt, a legion devil? How can you-?”

“It was a painful realization, I assure you,” Drizzt said dryly. “If there are any remaining associates of his among your ranks …”

“None,” Kale Denrigs replied without hesitation, and the man truly seemed shaken by the revelations.

“Take us to Stuyles,” Drizzt bade the man. “I must speak with him, and quickly.” He glanced up at the sky, where thick clouds were gathering.

Kale looked at him skeptically. “A tough road with the wagon, I fear.”

“Then leave it here. My friends will stay with it and await my return.”

Still with doubt clear on his face, Kale glanced at the mound of sacks in the back of the wagon, then started to motion to his team.

“Leave those as well,” Drizzt remarked.

“Have you baited us, then?”

“Let me speak with Stuyles,” Drizzt said. “Either way, the supplies will be yours, but you need not take them now.”

“Explain.”

But Drizzt had heard enough. He shook his head and told Kale to take him to Stuyles again.

Kale bade his band to remain with the wagon as well, and they gladly agreed when Ambergris broke out the ale and offered up drinks all around. With just him and Drizzt, the travel was quick, but over difficult terrain, and Drizzt understood the truth of the claim that it would have been no easy task to take the wagon, or even just the supplies, along.

Soon enough, though, they arrived in a wide campground of scores of tents-Stuyles’s band had grown in the months since Drizzt had last seen them-and Drizzt and Farmer Stuyles shared another warm handshake. With many coming out to view this strange visitor, Drizzt motioned back at the tent from which Stuyles had emerged.

They left many wide eyes behind as they entered. Among the onlookers stood a young tiefling warlock, his shoulders twisted from a fall off a cliff when he was but a babe.

Kale Denrigs, a lieutenant of the band, joined the pair inside, and explained the situation with Hadencourt to a wide-eyed Stuyles.

“A demon?” Stuyles asked incredulously.

“Devil,” Drizzt corrected. “It is my belief that he was a scout for Sylora Salm.”

“The Thayan in Neverwinter Wood?”

“She is dead, her forces scattered, her Dread Ring diminished.”

“By your hand?”

Drizzt nodded.

“I expect that Hadencourt was looking for me and for Dahlia, at the behest of Sylora. Among the Thayans were the Ashmadai, devil-worshiping zealots.”

“We’ve had some unpleasant dealings with them,” Kale said.

“They’ll not be much trouble to you now,” Drizzt assured him.

“Then you come with good news and with supplies,” said Kale, and at the mention of supplies, Stuyles looked at Drizzt curiously.

“Supplies only if you decline my offer,” Drizzt said cryptically, a wry grin on his face.

“That seems a strange proposal,” said Kale, but Stuyles, obviously recognizing that Drizzt had something much more important in mind, held up his hand to cut the man short, and nodded for Drizzt to continue.

And so the drow laid it out before an incredulous Stuyles and Kale Denrigs, explaining the situation in Port Llast, a settlement in need of hearty settlers, and made his offer.

“It will be a home,” he said.

“Hardly a haven, though,” said Kale.

“I’ll not lie to you,” Drizzt replied. “The minions of Umberlee are stubborn and fierce. You will see battle, but take heart, for you will fight beside worthy comrades.”

“Including yourself?” asked Stuyles.

Drizzt nodded. “For the time being, at least. Myself and my friends. We have already done battle beside the folk of Port Llast, and have driven the sahuagin-the sea devils-to the sea, though we hold little doubt that they will return. Winter has brought a respite, perhaps, but the citizens of Port Llast must remain ever vigilant.”

“Truly, this is a memorable tenday,” Kale Denrigs said. When Drizzt regarded him, he added, “Full of memorable visitors.”

Drizzt didn’t think much of that remark, until Kale looked to Stuyles and completed the thought, adding, “Among the companions our friend Drizzt left at his wagon were three who also showed some hints of the Shadowfell.”

Drizzt eyed the man with interest.

“The gray man on the strange steed,” Kale quickly explained, and he held up his hands unthreateningly as if to indicate that he had meant no insult. “And the dwarf and man on the wagon. Not Shadovar, certainly, but tinged with the shadowstuff.”

“You’ve a keen eye,” said Drizzt.

“For shades, yes indeed, and with good reason,” answered a clearly relieved Kale. “I’ve fought my share-”

“What did you mean when you said ‘also’?”

Kale looked to Stuyles.

“We found a shade, a tiefling no less, along the road just a few days ago,” Stuyles explained. “A formidable creature, though he certainly doesn’t appear as such. Some … associates of mine waylai-err, encountered him along the road, but he soon gained the upper hand. He claimed himself an orphan of society, and so became the least expected member of our band since Skinny the half-ogre and his kin found their way to us not long after you had gone.”

“Devils, ogres, tiefling Shadovar,” Drizzt remarked. “You should take care the company you keep.” He was trying to figure a way to garner more information about this newcomer, when Stuyles volunteered all that Drizzt needed to hear.

“It is good that you didn’t have Effron along with you this day,” Stuyles said to Kale. “The encounter along the road might have gone much differently, and much more dangerously!”

He said it with a lighthearted flair, and was smiling quite widely, until he looked at the grim-faced drow.

“Effron the warlock,” Drizzt said. “Take care with that one, I beg. For your own sake.”

“You know him?”

“Take me to him.”

Stuyles started to talk again, to question the drow’s sudden change in demeanor, no doubt, but he swallowed hard and bade Kale to find the twisted warlock.

“What do you know?” Stuyles asked Drizzt when they were alone.

“I know that Effron Alegni is a troubled and angry young warlock. He carries a great burden upon his broken shoulders.”

“Will they accept him in Port Llast, then, should we accept your generous offer?”

Drizzt shook his head. “It will not likely get to that point.”

He moved to the tent flap and pulled it open, peering out. He didn’t want to get caught by surprise in an enclosed place against the likes of Effron. He noted immediately, though, that Kale stood perplexed, hands on hips, with many others around him, all shaking their heads and some pointing off into the woods.

“He saw my approach and likely fled,” Drizzt said, turning back to Stuyles.

“You and he are avowed enemies, then?”

Drizzt shook his head. “It is far more complicated than that, and trust me when I say that I would love nothing more than to find reconciliation with Effron, for myself and for-” he almost mentioned Dahlia, but decided not to go that far down the road.

He just blew a sigh instead. “It is a good offer for you and your band,” he said. “You will find community there, and a better way.”

“Some might think we’re doing well as it is,” Stuyles said.

“You live in tents in the snowy forest in the Sword Coast winter. Surely the houses of-” He paused as Stuyles held up his hand.

“It is not as easy as that, I fear,” he explained. “For myself, the offer is tempting, but not all in my band are likely to be welcomed openly by the folk of-well, of any town. Some have found us because they quite simply have nowhere else left to go.”

“They do now.”

“You offer amnesty? Just like that?”

“Yes,” Drizzt said evenly. He wasn’t about to let this idea fall apart when he seemed so close to actually making a difference here. “A clean handshake, with no call to divulge any unseemly history.” He paused on that for a moment and looked Stuyles directly in the eye. “So long as you can vouch for them, in that they will cause no mayhem in Port Llast. I’ll not insert more danger into the lives of those goodly folk.”

Farmer Stuyles thought on it for a few moments, as Kale entered the tent.

“I can,” he said, motioning for Kale to hold his news for the moment. “For almost all, at least. One or two might need some questioning, but I will leave that to you.”

Drizzt nodded, and both he and Stuyles looked to Kale.

“Gone,” the man informed them. “It would seem that Effron has flown away. I have sent out scouts.”

“Recall them,” Drizzt said. “He is likely back in the Shadowfell. And I would ask of both of you, as a friend, please mention nothing of Effron to my companions.”

“Not even Lady Dahlia?” Stuyles asked.

“Especially not Lady Dahlia,” said Drizzt.

A single wagon had departed Port Llast a couple days earlier, but nearly a score now rumbled down the last road to the town, though most of those had been stolen along the road over the previous months. Stuyles’s band had done quite well, for there was no shortage of people in the region left behind by the designs of the high captains of Luskan, forgotten by the lords of Waterdeep, and expelled from the turmoil of Neverwinter. The band of highwaymen numbered well over a hundred, for they had joined with another similar group of civilization’s refugees.

It hadn’t taken much convincing from Stuyles, for almost all had readily accepted Drizzt’s invitation: the promise of a new life, and true homes once more, as they had known in better times.

At the head of the caravan rode Farmer Stuyles, driving a wagon beside Drizzt and Andahar. They took their time along the last stretch of road, the long descent between the cliffs to the city’s guarded gate, and by the time they arrived, word had spread before them and much of the town was waiting to greet them.

Dorwyllan came out from the gate to stand before Drizzt and Stuyles.

“Refugees,” Drizzt explained. “Folk abandoned by the shrinking spheres of civilization.”

“Highwaymen,” Dorwyllan replied with a grin.

Farmer Stuyles turned a concerned glance at Drizzt.

“Former highwaymen,” Drizzt corrected.

“Port Llast citizens, then,” the elf agreed, and his smile widened as he extended his hand to Farmer Stuyles. “Throw wide the gates!” Dorwyllan cried, looking back over his shoulder. “And tell the minions of Umberlee that they’ll find no ground within Port Llast uncontested!”

A great cheer went up inside the wall, and following that rose an answering cheer among the weather-beaten and beleaguered folk of Stuyles’s renegade band.

“There’ll be more to join us,” Stuyles explained to the elf. “Coming from all parts.”

“The farmlands outside of Luskan, mostly,” Drizzt explained to the nodding Dorwyllan.

“I’ve sent runners,” Stuyles explained.

“We’ve many empty homes, and a plentiful harvest to be culled from the sea,” Dorwyllan replied. “Welcome.”

Drizzt had always suspected it, but now it was confirmed, that “welcome” was his favorite word in the Common Tongue, and a word, he understood, with no equivalent in the language of the drow.