The Realms of the Elves

NECESSARY SACRIFICES

The Year of the Behir (1342 DR)

Corwyn followed the brunette down the narrow cellar steps, admiring the sway of her hips. She moved down like a dancer, in time with the music that filled the tap room of the inn above. The Old Skull Inn might have a reputation for drawing unsavory characters, but the women Jhaele hired to wait tables more than made up for it. This one had the most delicious laugh, and hips like…

Something was wrong. The brunette had stopped at the bottom of the stairs. She stood rigid, staring at something on the floor. Beyond her, in the darkened cellar, a shadow shifted.

Instantly sober, Corwyn drew his short sword. He stepped past her, sweeping her behind him with one arm.

A twang sounded from the far corner of the cellar. Pain lanced into Corwyn's thigh. He didn't stop to glance down at the wound.

"Up the stairs," he shouted, giving the brunette a shove. At the same time, he marked a dim patch of white hair against ebony skin. Drow.

He charged, thrusting at the dark elfs chest. The drow dodged the blade with uncanny speed, simultaneously spinning and slamming a foot into the back of Corwyn's knee.

Corwyn stumbled, but managed to dodge the dagger that slashed at his arm. That it hadn't been a thrust for the vitals told him something: the dagger must be poisoned. Reeling back to his feet, the bolt in his thigh a hot point of pain, he somehow managed to catch the drow's wrist with his free hand. The wrist was sticky, coated in something that allowed Corwyn to maintain his grip. He slammed the dark elfs hand into the wall, and heard the knife clatter to the floor.

The drow spat a word at Corwyn-a curse. Then he wrenched his wrist free and spun. An elbow slammed into Corwyn's temple. Blinking stars, Corwyn staggered back, sword loose in his hand. He flailed with it as the dark elf retreated, and heard the sound of wood sliding against stone then only the sound of his own harsh breathing and feet pounding down the stairs.

His foot slid on something: Spilled blood.

That was when he looked down and saw the boy.

The Year of Moonfall (1344 DR)

Blowing snow stung SorrelPs face as he trudged through the forest. As the curtain of white shifted, the trees that surrounded him were screened from sight, then reappeared again. High above in the creaking branches, the elves of Cormanthor-his People-sat snug behind shuttered windows in their treetop homes, celebrating Midwinter Night. He caught the faint smell of mulled wine and onion-baked venison, and heard snatches of song over the shrill of the wind.

He drew his cloak tighter and shivered. For him, there would be no more singing. The ache inside him had stoppered his voice like a plug of ice.

He strode on, chin tucked into his chest, the club that hung from his belt swinging as he walked. Eventually, in the dusk ahead, a massive oak tree loomed. It had a trunk the size of a tower. A dozen elves with hands joined might just have encircled it. As Sorrell drew closer, he could see that the oak was utterly black, just as the songs had said. Its trunk, branches, and leaves-which had never fallen, not for five millennia-were as dark as a drow's heart.

Between two of the massive roots was a hole in the ground. Stairs, slick with ice, spiraled down into darkness. Sorrell paused at the top of it. He'd traveled so far, but he was finally there-and in time for Midwinter Night. After two years, did he still want to quench his sorrow in blood?

He reached under his cloak and slid a finger into the pocket of his shirt-the pocket over his heart-and touched a lock of auburn hair, tied with a frayed ribbon.

He touched the black bark. Brilliant white light flared around his hand, bright enough to reveal the dark shadows of the bones within his flesh.

"I givemyself to you, Shevarash," he intoned in a voice made flat by grief. "A weapon in your hands. Use me well."

The air in the cavern beneath the oak stank of damp stone and earth, the smells of the Underdark. The cavern was large, but the black tree roots that twisted down through it made it seem tight and confined. Dozens of elves filled it: pale, willowy moon elves; sun elves with skin the color of burnished bronze; stockier wood elves like Sorrell-even a couple of wild elves with black tattoos on their bark-brown skin. All of the Dark Avengers were dressed in the ritual vestments of Shevarash's faith. Elven chain mail gleamed in the light of the candles they held, and blood-red cloaks draped their shoulders. Their faces were hidden by helmets with a fixed half-visor, revealing only their eyes and their grim mouths.

One of the dhaeraowathila led Sorrell to an altar at the center of the cavern. Weapons were piled around it in a heap: axes with broken handles, rapiers with notched blades, battered bucklers, splintered crossbows missing their strings, and hundreds of broken crossbow bolts. Drow weapons, all. SorrelPs breath lumped in his throat as he spotted a dagger with a spider-shaped pommel; a furrow in its blade held the remnants of poison, faded to a dull brown. The sight of it tore a sick hollow in his gut.

He climbed across the shifting pile of broken weapons, onto the altar. As he turned to face the dhaeraowathila, the elves in the cavern began to keen in voices both male and female. That there were women among Shevarash's faithful shouldn't have surprised him; Dalmara had been stronger than him, that terrible night.

The dhaeraowathila who had led Sorrell to the altar-a sun elf with hands criss-crossed with old scars-handed him a crossbow bolt fletched with bone-white feathers. Sorrell gripped it at both ends, crunching the fletches in his right fist. The barbed point cut into his left palm; the pain was sharp and clean-and welcome.

As the keening grew to a wail, the dhaeraowathila nodded. Sorrell lifted the bolt, then broke it across one raised knee.

The keening stopped.

"Sorrell Ilithaine," the dhaeraowathila intoned, "what do you seek?" His voice was gravelly, as low as a dwarfs.

The poisoned dagger atop the heap of weapons still held Sorrell's eye. He swallowed down the lump in his throat.

"Vengeance," he whispered.

The dhaeraowathila' hand shot out, grabbed Sorrell's shirt. The priest pulled Sorrell's face close to his own. His eyes blazed from behind his visor. "Does your heart not burn?"

Sorrell managed a nod. A lie. His heart didn't burn. It was ice.

"Then shout!"

Sorrell reeled backward as the priest released him. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists tighter around the broken pieces of the crossbow bolt. He pictured the horror he'd seen in the cellar that night. The two he held most dear, dead.

"Vengeance!"

He raised the halves of the broken bolt and tipped back his head, shouting at the ceiling above. "Vengeance!"

His body was rigid, tense. He expected something to break, to release the tears that were dammed up inside him.

It didn't.

Slowly, he lowered his hands.

One of the other elves stepped forward, handing the dhaeraowathila a helm filled with blood. The priest held it out. Sorrell glanced down, wondering whose blood it was, then decided it didn't matter.

He dipped the broken ends of the bolt in it then raised them to his face. He touched one to each cheek, just below the eye, and waited. Blood dripped onto his hands, and trickled down his wrists.

"Do you swear to serve Shevarash?" the priest asked.

"I so swear," Sorrell answered.

"To be his weapon of vengeance against the drow?"

"I so swear."

"To give no quarter, and to demand none? To carry the fight ever onward and downward? To continue on, until your own death should come?"

Sorrell gave a wry smile. Death would be welcome. A release. "I so swear."

"Never again to laugh, never to smile, until the day the last drow lies dead?"

Sorrell's jaw tightened. He could feel a blaze kindling in his own eyes. "I so swear."

With a savage yank, he pulled his hands downward, painting twin streaks of red down his cheeks.

Blood tears.

The dhaeraowathila lowered the blood-filled helm and said, "Then welcome, brother. Welcome to our war."

Sorrell waited on the veranda that encircled the High Council chamber. Snowflakes blew in through the veranda's latticelike outer wall and swirled around his boots. The floor shifted slightly as the tree branches that supported it bent in the wind. Sorrell's shoulders hunched, but not against the morning's cold. Tension bent him like a strung bow as he silently composed the plea he was about to deliver. His fists clenched. His entreaty had to work. It had to.

After a moment, a door opened. A wood elf with a high forehead framed with graying hair stepped out, shutting the door behind him. His clothes were of green velvet, embroidered with gold; on his right index finger was a gold ring with an enormous carved emerald: a council seal stone.

Sorrell touched his right hand to his heart and bowed low. "Councilor Relhthorn."

Hands clasped Sorrell's shoulders and straightened him. The older elf stared at the dried blood on Sorrell's cheeks. One hand shifted slightly, as if to wipe it away, then returned to Sorrell's shoulder. The older elf squeezed Sorrell's shoulders tightly, and for a moment Sorrell thought he was going to be drawn into a hug.

"Sorrell. Welcome home, nephew." The older elf he took a step back, reestablishing a formal distance. "What is so urgent that you insisted on interrupting an emergency meeting of the High Council?"

Sorrell's jaw clenched. "I heard about this morning's attack, Uncle Alcorn. Everyone in the temple was talking about it after the High Council summoned the dhaeraowathila. You're going to send one of the Dark Avenger war bands out." He touched the handle of his club. "I want to go with them."

Alcorn shook his head. "You're untrained. The war band we're sending won't take you-especially on a mission of such importance. The two attackers came through the portal that joins us to the Yuirwood; somehow, they discovered how to use it. They were part of a scouting party, and must be hunted down before they can return with this information to whatever drow city sent them. If we fail, Cormanthor could face an attack in force-and at the worst possible time."

Sorrell nodded. After six hundred years of debate, the High Council had finally come to a decision. Cormanthor, like Eaerlann before it, would be abandoned to the encroaching humans. The elves would retreat to Evermeet, a land the humans could never defile. Even then, preparations were being made-preparations that would all be for naught, if the drow attacked in the meantime.

Sorrell squared his shoulders. "The drow that was killed. I heard…" His voice dropped to a raw whisper. "They say his fist was blackened with pitch. Is it true?"

It took Alcorn a moment to meet Sorrell's eyes. "It's true."

Those two simple words punched into Sorrell like blows, leaving him slightly dizzy. He took a deep breath. "Uncle, can you not see the hand of Shevarash at work? Midwinter Night, and I am accepted into his faith. The very next morning, there is an attack by the same group of drow who…" He paused, choked down the emotion that clawed at his throat with fingers of ice. "Please," he pleaded, his script forgotten. "This might be my only chance to avenge Dalmara and… and…"

Alcorn's eyes softened. He glanced at the door that led to the High Council chambers, then back at Sorrell. "I'll see what I can do."

O

Sorrell returned to the room the Dark Avengers had assigned him. It was sparsely furnished, with only a chest to hold his belongings and a hard wooden bench for Reverie. The walls were of plain stone, bereft of the carvings and paintings that usually decorated an elven dwelling. He sat on the edge of the bench, twisting the leather thong that hung from the grip of his club, wondering if his uncle would follow through on his promise.

The answer came a moment later, when Pendaran, the priest who had initiated Sorrell into Shevarash's faith, opened the door. The dhaeraowathila wore a plain brown cloak and trousers, a contrast to the polished armor he'd worn the night before. The scars on his hands and the gnarled mass of scar tissue where the tip of his left ear had been attested to his many battles. Sorrell had heard that the sun elf had been an officer in Evermeet's cavalry before joining Shevarash's faithful.

Pendaran held a worn pack in his hands. He tossed it onto the bench where Sorrell sat, then folded his arms across his chest. His face and hands were a dull metallic gray, as if his skin had been painted.

Sorrell stared at the pack, realizing what it meant. He nearly smiled, catching himself just in time. "I'm going?"

Pendaran's wheat-blond eyebrows pulled down into a scowl. "By order of the High Council, yes."

Sorrell's heart beat a little faster as he rose to his feet. And so it began-his chance at vengeance. "You won't be sorry."

"We'll see." Pendaran nodded at Sorrell's club. "I noticed that your weapon is ensorcelled. Do you know how to use it?"

Sorrell lifted his club. Made of black thornwood, it only had a simple haste dweomer placed on it, but Pendaran was right in one respect: Sorrell knew this weapon. He'd spent months learning from the best fighters he could find, and more months smashing massive gnarlwood nuts, imagining each to be a drow head. Practicing hard, until the weapon felt as natural in his hand as a lute Imce had. He could hold the heavy club at arm's length, level with his shoulder, for an entire afternoon without so bnuch as a twinge in his muscles. He was as strong as any warrior-a far cry from the man he had once been. "I know how to use it," he assured Pendaran.

The sun elf nodded. "You'll be joining the Silent Slayers-the band of crusaders that I lead. You'll be club bearer."

"Shevarash's fifth and final weapon," Sorrell recited. I'The club Maelat, which he carries together with Shama, his spear, and Ukava, his sling, when he appears in the guise of Elikarashe, as he is called in the songs of the Yuir." He nodded at the quiver at Pendaran's hip. "His other two weapons are the Black Bow, and Traitorbane, his sword."

Pendaran's eyebrows raised slightly. "For a novice, you already know a lot about our faith."

"I learned that from a song years ago. Long before-"

"Before the assassins of the Blackened Fist struck," Pendaran finished for him. "Your uncle told me why you're here." His eyes bored into Sorrell's. "That's why I agreed to take you. Not because of the High Council's orders, but because this is your fight." He paused. "You will have to do everything you're told, exactly as you're told, the instant you're told. Understood?"

Sorrell gave a fierce nod. "Understood."

Pendaran's eyes blazed. "We will have our vengeance. The drow have no mercy, and deserve none. They're vermin that kill man, woman and-"

Sorrell blinked in surprise. "They killed your child?"

"She may as well have been." Pendaran's mouth ticked with silent emotion. "Her name was Alfaras. She was a moon-horse. A loyal mount, fierce in battle-until a drow bolt found her heart."

Sorrell could only stare. How could the loss of a horse compare to "I raised her from a foal," Pendaran whispered. "She came to me, willingly, from the herd. I rode her for nearly a century. One day, I'll ride her again. In Arvandor."

He turned and picked up the pack. "Inside is every thing you'll need in the Underdark." He untied the main flap and pulled out a belt with a series of loops that held small metal vials sealed with waxed corks. "Potions for curing, and for neutralizing poison." He draped the belt over the chair, then pulled out a bandolier with larger loops that held rough-cut quartz prisms. "Flash gems. With a time delay. Speak the command word, throw one into a cavern or drop it down a rock chimney, then close your eyes for a count of three. Anything that's sensitive to light will be blinded long enough for you to kill it."

Next came soft leather boots, as new looking as the pack was worn. They were dark red, embroidered with thread-of-gold. Pendaran held them up, then let them fall to the ground. They landed without making a sound.

"Boots of silent striding?"

"More than that." Pendaran spoke a command word: "Levarithin."

The boots gently lifted from the floor. Pendaran held out a hand, stopping them before they rose to the ceiling. "Descenthallan." The boots sank gently to the floor. He stared a challenge at Sorrell. "You got that?"

Sorrell nodded. "Levarithin… descenthallan. Got it." The boots rose from the floor, then sank again.

"Good." Pendaran lifted a fine silver chain from the pack; dangling from it was a circle of what looked like clear glass. A ring. Unfastening the chain, he slid the ring off and handed it to Sorrell. "Put it on."

"Which finger?"

"It doesn't matter."

Sorrell slipped the ring onto his left index finger. The magical ring adjusted to fit, then seemingly disappeared. Sorrell could feel it, but couldn't see it.

"Vanessaril to become invisible," Pendaran instructed. "Maniferril to become visible again."

Sorrell repeated the first command word. Going invisible was an odd sensation. He had to fight the urge to turn around and see where his body had gone. It left him feeling off center and slightly dizzy.

"Maniferril," he said, glad to be able to see his feet again.

"You'll get used to it," Pendaran said. "But don't come to rely on it. The Underdark's filled with traps and wards that will kill you just as dead, visible or invisible."

Sorrell lowered his hand. "How soon do we leave?"

"As soon as you've put this on." Pendaran pulled a metal jar from the pack and handed it to Sorrell. Like the potion vials, it was sealed with a cork. The wax seal had already been broken, and the outside of the jar was smudged with gray. It smelled like mud mixed with herbs.

"Magical armor paint," Pendaran explained. "Strip down, and smear it over every bit of your body-especially those bits you'd most like to keep."

Sorrell met Pendaran's eyes. The dhaeraowathila was testing him, seeing if Sorrell would forget his vow by smiling at the joke. The veiled reference to lovemaking, however, reminded Sorrell of Dalmara… and of children.

The lump of ice returned to his heart.

"Something wrong?" Pendaran asked.

Sorrell managed to shake his head. "No, sir." The title came unbidden to his lips; it fit. Sorrell met his eye and slapped a hand against the handle of his club. "I'm looking forward to splitting drow skulls."

"Good. When you've finished, join us near Shevarash's Oak. I'll be briefing the war band there."

Sorrell stood with the other members of Pendaran's war band near the portal, waiting as two elves swept it clear of snow. There was evidence of a recent fight. The snow that had fallen since then hadn't quite covered up the crystallized patches of red that were frozen blood.

Pendaran briefed his war band. "Two drow came through. One was killed, but the second escaped back with an entrance no wider than a crack; the half-elves had to use magic to see inside it. They spotted a chimney in the rock, leading down to the Underdark. From the boot prints they found they estimate there were five drow in total."

Pendaran ran a scarred hand through his wheat-colored hair. "A scouting thalakz" he concluded, using a drow word. "One down, and four to go. And one of the four wounded, and slowing the rest down. Their leader, obviously, or they would have killed her."

As he listened, Sorrell stared at the other three members of Pendaran's war band.

Koora was a heavily tattooed wild elf, with dark brown skin and black, wavy hair, and the nervous, watchful air of a woodland creature that would startle at a sudden move. A small, dark blue gem-obviously magical-orbited her head like a restless fly. A sling hung coiled at her belt, next to a lumpy looking leather bag that probably held sling stones. Her feet were bare, despite the snow.

The other two-Nairen and Adair-were clearly related. They had the same triangular jaw, the same thin eyebrows that met in a V over a narrow nose. The resemblance was close enough that they were probably brothers-though Nairen, the one with the broadsword at his hip, was a full moon elf, and Adair, the one leaning on the short spear, was part human. Both were tall and wiry, with fair skin the color of cream and hair so black it shone a deep, silken blue. Nairen wore his in a neat braid that hung down his back, while Adair's was loose and looked as though it had been hacked to its shoulder length with a knife. There were threads of gray in it; Adair looked twice as old as Nairen. But half-elves aged faster. The two might very well have been only a year apart.

Both men were still young. Added together, their ages would probably barely match Sorrell's own hundred and twenty-six years.

Pendaran, however, was easily twice Sorrell's age, well into his third century of life. He was armed, that morning, with a bow that was black as night and strung with a blood-red string. A quiver at his hip, next to a sheathed dagger, held a dozen arrows with red fletching.

The sweepers moved aside with their brooms. The portal was a mosaic made from thousands of pebbles set into the forest floor; dark green stones formed a pattern of oversized leaves that spiraled in toward the mosaic's center. Only by stepping on the leaves in a specific pattern could the portal's magic be triggered. Sorrell had never used the portal before. He'd have to watch where the others stepped, or be left behind.

He expected Pendaran to set but immediately, but the dhaeraowathila was busy untying the strings of a small silk bag. The others in the war band gathered around him expectantly. They gave Sorrell sharp glances as he joined them.

Pendaran tipped the bag's contents into one calloused palm: five rings made of a brownish material that looked like carved horn. He held out his hand; Koora, Nairen and Adair each took a ring. Sorrell hesitated, then took the fifth ring. He slid it onto the second finger of his left hand, next to the invisibility ring. Immediately, his awareness expanded fivefold. He was aware of everything around him, as if he were looking and listening in several different directions at once. His mind filled with voices.

… filthy spider kissers. A male voice-either Nairen's or Adair's.

Five silver pieces says I take down more than you. Similar to the first voice, but deeper, more human sounding.

Good hunting. That voice was female, with the distinctive lilt of a wild elf. Koora.

Cut the chatter, Pendaran ordered.

The voices fell silent.

Pendaran turned to Sorrell. "To use the ring, imagine yourself speaking to the person you want to talk to," he said out loud.

Sorrell concentrated. Like this? He saw Adair wince. Not so loud, Nairen snapped. Novices, Adair grumbled, shaking his head. Sorrell gave the half-elf a sharp look. Adair had obviously intended him to hear that. Let's go, Pendaran ordered.

Sorrell expected Pendaran to take the lead, but it was the wild elf Koora who stepped onto the portal first. Pendaran followed.

You're next, said Nairen, gesturing with a jerk of his head. The new man goes in the middle, where he can do the least harm. Remember that.

Sorrell shrugged off the comment. The Silent Slayers had worked together as a team for nearly six years-he'd overheard someone mention that the night before-and were obviously used to doing things a certain way. And Sorrell had yet to prove himself. He nodded and stepped onto the first leaf, observing where Pendaran placed his feet. Nairen and Adair followed.

Koora reached the center of the spiral and vanished. Then Pendaran. One moment the grizzled knight was just ahead of Sorrell; the next, he was gone. Only a faint shimmer in the air marked the transition. Sorrell hesitated for a heartbeat, then stepped on the center leaf himself.

It was as if he'd stepped into a cyclone. The world spun crazily around him, trees flashing past in a blur. Reeling sideways like a drunken man, he fell to his hands and knees. He glanced up and saw Pendaran staring down at him, a slight frown on his face. Sorrell scrambled to his feet, ignoring the scrapes on his hands-and on his dignity.

Nairen, then Adair stepped out of the center of the portal.

The mosaic they'd been transported to looked identical to the first, save for the fact that the leaves on it were red. Pendaran glanced around, then waved the group on.

Sorrell trudged along at the middle of the group, as instructed. In the Yuirwood, it wasn't snowing. The ground was clear, though icicles tinkled in the branches above. And it was cold; Sorrell's breath fogged the air. In years gone by, he would have wrapped a cloth around his throat and mouth to protect his voice.

He inhaled, savoring the bite of cold air inside his lungs.

A short time later, an outcropping of granite could be seen through the forest ahead. Pendaran halted the group and pointed out a crack, no more than a palm's breadth wide, that ran up the face of the rock. There it is.

He glanced around, then whistled softly. A moment later, a patch of brown detached itself from a nearby tree. It was a half-elf, her hooded cloak and trousers the exact shade of the forest around them, her face and hands stained a mottled brown. Save for her bright blue eyes, Sorrell would have had difficulty spotting her, even close up. Her boots must also have been magical; she moved without making a sound. She held a bow with a nocked arrow in one hand. She assured Pendaran that nothing and no one-visible or invisible-had passed through the crack since morning.

Pendaran glanced at Nairen.

The wild elf stood with closed eyes, her arms extended toward the crack in the rock. Pendaran nodded.

Adair leveled his spear at the crack and whispered under his breath.

Pendaran nodded again.

Nairen caught his leader's eye, shook his head.

Sorrell realized the Silent Slayers were talking to one another, comparing notes as they used magic to examine the cave. He felt like an outsider, watching a performance he wasn't allowed to participate in.

Join up, Pendaran said. We're going in. He repeated the latter, out loud, to the half-elf who had been standing watch in the forest. The woman saluted them, then resumed her vigil.

The other three Slayers each laid a hand on their leader's shoulder. When Pendaran glanced impatiently at him, Sorrell did the same. He noticed that the others were crouching slightly, and bent his own knees. Pendaran's lips moved in silent prayer, and he took a step forward. Sorrell felt a tearing sensation, as if his body had been yanked thin, and found himself standing inside a cave. The walls were jagged and rough; ice-split granite. Loose stone shifted underfoot. Sorrell started to straighten Watch your head, fool!

The warning was in Nairen's voice. And it was a heartbeat too late. Sorrell cracked his head on a bulge of rock that he hadn't noticed in the dimly lit cave. Wincing, he sank back into a crouch.

Koora squatted beside a hole near the back of the cavern, her hands extended over it, palms down. Adair and Nairen stood to either side of her, weapons ready. Pendaran scowled, then nodded as if he'd made a decision. Koora began to whisper: another spell. Not sure what was expected of him, Sorrell snuck a glance out through the crack in the rock at the trees of the Yuirwood. He tried to fix the image in his mind; it might very well be the last time he saw a forest.

Switch to Shevarash's sight, everyone, and activate your rings.

Sorrell heard whispered voices. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the Slayers disappear from sight, one after the other. He was about to speak his ring's command word when something in the cave's entrance caught his eye. He at first dismissed it as a large bug, then realized it had a square shape. Curious, he took a step closer.

The moving thing was a tiny wooden chest, just the right size for a child's doll house, with eight legs that looked like they were made of stiff black string. As it crawled into the cave, Sorrell jerked his foot back from it.

What in the Abyss is that?

What? Pendaran asked.

Sorrell hadn't realized his exclamation had gone out to the group. He started to answer aloud, then caught himself. No more mistakes.

On the floor near my foot. A tiny chest-probably magical, he guessed. It looks kind of like a spider.

He heard Koora whisper. Sparkles of magical energy streaked from where she had been crouched and crackled around the miniature chest. Its legs fell still.

Sorrell felt a hand nudge him aside. Don't touch it. Pendaran's voice echoed in his head.

Sorrell stepped back. He heard a slight rustle, and guessed that Pendaran was squatting to examine the miniature chest. A faint metallic rasp announced a dagger being drawn from its sheath, then he heard a pop that sounded like a cork being drawn. The miniature chest shifted slightly as an invisible dagger tip poked it. Slowly, its lid lifted. Inside was a bright red powder that rose into the air in a puff as the lid was raised. A stream of liquid appeared, pouring onto the chest from an invisible container; the liquid quenched the cloud and filled the chest, making the remaining powder hiss and bubble.

Poison spores, Pendaran announced.

Sorrell heard a rustle as Pendaran stood.

There will be more, the leader continued. Following their makers, slowly creeping their way toward the chimney to tumble in and dump their poison on us. But by the grace of Shevarash, we have discovered them.

Sorrell was certain the lengthy speech had been for his benefit: a morale booster. Or perhaps for the enlightenment of those around him; he heard low-pitched, grudging acknowledgement from the two brothers.

Find the rest of them, Koora, Pendaran continued. Dispel them.

Sorrell heard a female voice whisper a prayer. Sparkles of magical energy shot out of the cave's entrance and coalesced around tiny objects on the ground beyond. He felt someone move close-Pendaran.

Close your eyes, the leader instructed.

Sorrell did, and felt a fingertip touch each eye. A whispered prayer followed. When Sorrell opened his eyes again, he could see the others again. Or rather, he could see the shifting auras that were their heat signatures. Their bodies were tones of red: a dull ruby where clothing masked body heat, bright orange-red on exposed faces and hands. White plumes bloomed at their noses each time they exhaled, quickly fading to yellow, then dusky orange, then purple-blue. Their extremities-ears and fingers-were blobs of darker, purplish red. Behind them, the stone of the cavern was dark purple, almost black, colder than the air that filled it. As they moved, fuzzy afterimages of lingering heat briefly streaked the air, then faded. Their boots left dull smudges of blue warmth on the colder ground.

The effect was stunning in its beauty-so riveting that for a moment Sorrell found himself starting to hum a tune under his breath and wondering how he would possibly convey it in verse.

Then Pendaran's gruff voice-thoughts ordered them into the chimney. Weapons at the ready, he instructed. There's a larger cavern below. If we missed anything, we'll have a fight on our hands. Fan out as soon as your feet hit the floor.

Sobered, Sorrell readied his club. He watched as Koora stepped onto the empty space above the chimney and sank slowly from sight. Pendaran followed. Then it was Sorrell's turn.

"Descenthallan," he whispered aloud, and stepped onto empty air.

As he drifted down into the tight confines of the chimney, gripping his club against his chest, he wondered if the warriors in the ancient songs had felt as frightened as he did just then.

The time for songs, however, was long over.

They traveled through the Underdark for a long time-it must have been well past Night's Heart in the World Above-before Pendaran at last called a halt and set a watch. The trek had been exhausting and not what Sorrell had expected. He'd pictured the passageways through the Underdark as something like forest trails: a bit rough underfoot, and winding, but something that could be negotiated at an upright, walking pace. The reality was far different. They had clambered down slopes of jagged stone, squeezed through passages so tight that Sorrell had been afraid to inhale fully, lest he get stuck, used their boots to levitate up and down connecting chimneys, and crawled through caverns with ceilings so low they had to worm their way along on their bellies, nose to boot with the person ahead. They'd pushed themselves hard, stopping only once, and just long enough for Adair to murmur a prayer that filled their hands with nutbread and their leather drinking cups with water, a meal that was consumed in haste and silence. And still they were no closer to catching their prey; the drow simply had too good a start.

By the time Pendaran admitted that there was no point in running themselves to utter exhaustion, Sorrell was filthy, sweaty, and stumbling. He didn't complain when Pendaran chose him as one of the first, together with Koora, to be allowed to slip into Reverie.

It was over much too soon. Sorrell felt as though he'd barely begun his meditations when Pendaran shook his shoulder.

You're on watch, the leader said. He pointed down the passage. Take overNairen's position. He's about fifty paces back, at the mouth of the large cavern.

Sorrell nodded, uncrossed his legs, and rose to his feet. Despite his fatigue, he was glad to stand a watch. Glad to be included. Stooping to avoid the low ceiling, he clambered back the way they'd come, his magical boots silent, even when they slipped on the rough stone.

When he got to the spot where the moon elf should have been he couldn't see anyone.

Nairen? he asked.

He stared down into the cavern. It was as wide as a tree was tall, and three times the height of a man. Its floor was dotted with dull red dots-luminescent, ball-sized fungi that grew in clusters amid the jumble of rock. They were bright spots of true color against the cold black-purple of the stones they grew upon. "Crimson spitters," Pendaran had called them. If disturbed, they released a cloud of deadly spores, similar to the ones the miniature chests had contained.

The drow had gone that way, but not along the floor. There were tears in the blue-glowing, fan-shaped lichen that clung to the cavern's ceiling where the drow must have brushed against them. Koora had pointed the smudge out, suspicious, at first, that the drow had been so careless in their passage. Sorrell would otherwise have completely missed it. He peered at the ceiling, wondering if Nairen had somehow found a way to hide himself there.

Nairen? he called again. Where are you?

A hand touched his shoulder. Sorrell whirled and saw that the hand had emerged from solid stone. Nairen stepped out of the wall, his skin warming from deep blue to red as the stone released him. He shivered, then pointed at a crack in the wall near the cave mouth.

You'll have to hide yourself the conventional way, he said. Unless you have magic?

The latter was phrased as a question, but the tone suggested a challenge. Sorrell did have some magic-his voice. With his singing, he'd been able to captivate even the most unruly audience. His songs could calm quarrelsome drunks before they came to blows, could make his listeners laugh so hard their eyes streamed with tears, and could soothe to sleep the most restless babe. Many were the nights he'd used the latter, back when Remmie was small…

The lump of ice was back in his throat. He blinked away the sudden sting in his eyes, and shook his head. A little bardic magic, he replied. Nothing useful.

Nairen gave the mental equivalent of a grunt. Keep, your eyes open, he warned. Don't assume that just because we already came this way, the cavern isn't worth watching.

Koora's voice: s he in position?

Sorrell squeezed his body into the crack in the rock.

Nairen: He is. I'm coming in.

The moon elf crept silently away. Sorrell watched, fascinated, as Nairen's dull blue boot prints slowly faded from the floor of the passageway, then remembered his duty. He turned his head, keeping watch on the empty cavern.

There was a brief flurry of mental conversation as Koora reported to the group that she had replaced Adair, and as the half-elf hooked up with Nairen and Pendaran, back at the place where they'd halted. Then silence, as the three not on watch settled into Reverie.

Time passed.

Sorrell found himself wondering if dawn had broken in the World Above. While they'd been on the move, it had been easy to distract himself with the necessity of constantly surveying the terrain around them-searching for handholds and places to put his feet. Easy to focus on their objective: catching up to, and killing, the drow who had broached Cormanthor's defenses.

Now that he was simply standing, he was all too aware of the depth to which they'd descended, of the weight of the stone above his head. He stared at the cold dark purple walls, wondering if he'd ever see daylight again.

Lonely, isn't it?

Koora's voice. It sounded as though she was standing right next to him. Sorrell startled, wondering if the ring had been broadcasting his thoughts. It was only supposed to relay intentional messages-and only to the intended recipient. felt the same way on my first hunt, the wild elf continued. An outsider. I had nothing when I came to Shevarash. The Silent Slayers became my clan-in time, you will feel the same. You earned yourself a place among us by finding the crawl-chests-something I should have spotted. Nairen and Adair will come around, eventually.

And Pendaran has already trusted you with a watch. Her silent voice developed a chuckle. Though a safe one. Had we passed a side passage, it might have been different.

Sorrell kept a watchful eye on the tunnel as he listened, determined not to let his attention waver a second time. Koora's accent reminded him of someone-a centaur he'd once met.

Where are you from? he thought back.

For several heartbeats there was only silence. Then, The Satyrwood.

Sorrell knew it well. The forest-called the Chondalwood by humans-lay south of Arrabar, a city he and Dalmara had performed in more than twenty years ago. Dalmara, intent upon collecting more folk songs, had insisted on making a trek to a wild elf camp deep in the Satyrwood. The centaur had been their guide. Sorrell searched his memory, looking for the name of the harpist they'd met there.

Do you know a woman named Bronwynn, of the Redleaf Clan?

Koora's mental voice, when she answered, was small and tight. There is no Redleaf Clan. Not any more. A pause, then, I was deep in the forest, hunting, when it happened. Now I hunt drow.

Sorrell blinked in surprise, but said nothing. What could be said? He remembered the murmured kindnesses, the polite words that had been spoken after his own loss. He knew that nothing he said could banish the grief he heard, loud as a tolling bell, in Koora's silence. His fists were clenched around his club; glancing down, he saw that his fingers had faded to a dull red.

Did you… He had to blink furiously before he was able to continue. Was there a child?

I was not yet a mother, thank Angharradh for small mercies. But my sister was. Three daughters, all dead.

Sorrell felt a tear furrow its way through the dirt on his cheek. It dripped, a bead of dark blue, onto the stone at his feet and faded to purple. He didn't want to hear any more. Lisa Smedtnan

Thankfully, Koora was silent.

Sorrell raised a hand to wipe his cheek-and paused as he heard a noise in the passage behind him. A faint thudding, like footsteps on stone. He started to turn to see which of the others was approaching, then remembered their magical boots.

He whirled just in time to see a monstrous shape scuttling across the ceiling of the cavern, tearing a scuff of darkness in the lichen as it ran. It looked like a cross between drow and spider-dark elf from the waist up, but with a spider's bulbous thorax and abdomen, and eight legs.

Sorrell's heart pounded as he stepped out of the crack and raised his club to meet the monster's charge. He needed room to swing his club; he'd have to count on his invisibility to hide him. Knocking the monster down into the crimson spitters would be his best chance.

Sorrell! What's happening? Pendaran's voice. Alert. Tense.

Monster attacking! Sorrell shouted back. Half spider, half drow.

The creature's eyes locked on his.

Sorrell felt a sudden chill. It must have magic! It can see A ray of indigo light flashed from one of the creature's hands. It caught Sorrell square in the chest. Dots of blackness swam before his eyes. His legs wobbled and nearly buckled. His club-suddenly too heavy-sagged in his hands. The monster whipped its abdomen forward and a line of dull brown web shot from fingerlike spinnerets at its tip. The sticky strands nearly smothered Sorrell, fouling his hair and clothing, gumming his face and eyes. He tried to pull free, but the web was stuck fast to the stone wall behind him. The more he tore at it, the more his hands became entangled. The monster, meanwhile, jammed itself into the passageway and plucked Sorrell away from the wall, then began turning him around and around. More web surged from its spinnerets, winding around his legs, binding them tightly together.

Don't let it get away! Pendaran's voice, excited. Keep it busy until we can get there.

Sorrell groaned.

As if it had heard the silent message, the monster laughed. Its voice was disturbingly elflike. Its face, however, was not. Curved fangs sprang out of its cheeks like a pair of scissors opening. Each was beaded with poison at its tip.

Sorrell's hands were trapped by the web; it would be impossible to reach the anti-venom vial on his belt. All he could do was close his eyes and pray. At first, instinctively, to Corellon Larethian, then to Shevarash. He begged the Hunter to hear his plea.

Not yet! he cried. I haven't had a chance to kill The god's reply came like a clap of thunder. A deep male voice, grim as a dirge. Day is Done.

Sorrell's eyes sprang open. He knew immediately what the god wanted, and understood what the result would be. In a quavering voice, he began the lullaby he'd composed for his son: "Birds have flown home to their nests. I know we all could use some rest…"

A flicker of what looked like white flame sprang to life around the monster's head.

"Close your eyes now, day is done…"

The flame brightened. The monster shook its head and gnashed its fangs.

"Sleep now till the morning comes…"

The monster squeezed its eyes tight against the glare and shook its head.

Tears tumbled from Sorrell's eyes as he continued to sing. The lullaby brought back memories of his son's soft cheek against his own, the smell of Remmie's milk-sweet breath and tiny arms hugged tight around Sorrell's neck, a smaller head on the pillow next to his own.

Gone now. Dead.

Sorrell had vowed, in that dark cellar, never to sing that lullaby again-never to sing again. But what was a vow, compared to a god's command?

"Go to bed, now don't you cry…"

Sorrell's voice broke then, but it had been enough. The monster collapsed on the floor of the tunnel, its eight legs jerking reflexively, claws scraping on stone. Sorrell felt hands touching him, and realized that Nairen and Adair had reached him. He fought to pull himself together as they sliced the webs from him. Distantly, he heard Pendaran's Well done, and felt a calloused hand squeeze his shoulder.

Pendaran turned away, murmuring. His hands made a gesture over the monster. Suddenly released, it sprang to its feet, revived by Pendaran's magic.

Shocked out of his grief, Sorrell snatched up his club. Before he could attack, however, Adair lowered his spear, blocking the way.

Wait, he urged. Pendaran's charming it.

Pendaran said something to the monster in a chittering voice. It grinned back at him and its body bobbed up and down. Then it turned and clambered up onto the ceiling of the cavern, motioning with one of its elflike arms for them to follow. Pendaran's lips twitched-a suppressed smile.

It captured one of the drow, he announced.

He ordered Koora to maintain her position, and Adair, Nairen, and Sorrell to follow him back across the cavern. They did, Sorrell keeping a wary eye on the monster above.

What is that thing? he asked the group.

It was Nairen who answered, as they carefully picked their way between the crimson spitters, A drider. A reject ofLolth, their goddess. Driders hate the drow as much as we do, even though they used to be drow themselves.

Sorrell shuddered. He'd heard that Lolth was a cruel and uncaring goddess, utterly without mercy; that she deformed those who displeased her. He couldn't conceive of worshiping such a deity.

If it's a drow, why aren't we killing it?

Nairen winked. Be patient.

On the far side of the cavern, the drider reached into a shoulder-deep crevice in the rock and pulled out what looked like the top of a broken staff, set with a fist-sized emerald. Chittering at Pendaran, the drider crawled around a bend in the passageway, then touched the gem to the wall. The emerald glowed, and a hole silently sprang into being in the rock. The drider scrambled through it, still holding the broken staff. A putrid smell wafted out of the opening.

Nairen? Pendaran's voice. What can you detect!

Sorrell heard a quick, whispered prayer.

It's a dead-end cavern. There's no sign of a mate. Even so, he held his sword in one hand. Ready.

Adair, keep watch fifty paces on.

The half-elf nodded at his leader, and trotted away.

Pendaran, Sorrell, and Nairen followed the drider into a cavern that was dimly illuminated by more of the phosphorescent lichen. A pool of water filled one end of it. Hanging from a web that spanned the ceiling, twisting slowly in a cocoon of sticky web, was a drow. Only a portion of face showed, the skin black against the dull white of the web. Even though no more than a day could have passed since the drow had been captured, it smelled as though the body was already decomposing. Rancid liquid dripped from it onto the floor.

There's one of them, Nairen said. We'll soon have some questions answered.

But he's dead, Sorrell protested. How-?

On three, Pendaran said, cutting Sorrell off as he met Nairen's eye.

The moon elf's fingers tightened on his sword.

One, two…

Realizing what they were up to, Sorrell started to raise his club. No! Let me The drider whirled to face him, fangs flashing. Three!

Despite the haste dweomer on Sorrell's weapon, Nairen was quicker. With a single stroke, he severed the drider's neck. Blood fountained as the monster collapsed to the floor. Splatters landed on Sorrell's shoulder and arm.

Thanks for the distraction, Nairen said.

Sorrell fumed. "That should have been my kill," he said, forgetting Pendaran's strict orders to maintain silence.

Your time will come, Pendaran said, when Shevarash wills it. Then, to Nairen, Cut the body down.

Nairen levitated and sawed through the web with his sword. He lowered the cocoon carefully to the floor. Pendaran squatted beside it and cleared the web away from the lower portion of the drow's face.

Sorrell stared down at the drow-the first one he'd seen up close. A female. The dead scout had the narrow face and pointed ears of a surface elf, but her skin was as black as a starless sky, her hair, bone-white. Even in death, her face had a cruel cast. Sorrell clenched his fists. Nairen caught his arm, as if sensing Sorrell's urge to smash the body, over and over again, with his club. Steadying himself, Sorrell spat on the body instead.

A waste of good spit, if you ask me, Nairen said.

Pendaran tore away more of the webbing from the drow's shoulder, revealing a bandage, dark with dried blood. One arm was swollen to twice its normal size, and bore puncture marks.

Their leader, he observed. The remaining three will be running scared.

They'll also be running faster, now that they're no longer encumbered by her, Nairen observed.

Sorrell shook his head. He'd heard that the drow noble Houses were all matriarchies, but somehow, it hadn't sunk home. The drow who had killed his son might have been a woman. He thought of Dalmara, of her tenderness. How could a woman have been so cruel as to murder a three-year-old boy?

Pendaran was praying over the corpse. To what end, Sorrell couldn't guess-until, with a creaking yawn, its jaws sprang open. Breath hissed from dead lungs.

"Asssk," it whispered, its lips glowing with Shevarash's holy light.

"Your thalakz-what city sent it?" Pendaran asked.

"Brundag," the corpse answered. Bile bubbled at the back of its throat and trickled down its chin as it spoke.

Sickened, Sorrell turned away. He walked over to the pool and dipped his arm in it, trying to wash the blood from his sleeve.

Good idea, Nairen said as he squatted beside Sorrell. Just remember to renew your armor paint; it washes off.

He dipped his sword in the water, cleaning it. By the light of the lichen, Sorrell saw the inscription on his blade, done in black filigree: "Bane of the Depths." He dried the sword and sheathed it, then dipped his hands in the pool. As he splashed water on his face, his sleeves fell back, revealing forearms mottled with patches of pale white-the healed scars of what must have once been terrible burns.

The polite thing to do would have been to pretend not to have noticed, but Sorrell couldn't contain his curiosity.

What happened?

It was many years ago, Nairen said. We lived in the High Forest. Not in Nordahaeril itself, but on the outskirts, because of Adair. The night the drow came, the townfolk drew up their rope ladders, too frightened to help us. Even when our tree began to burn. He stared at the wall with eyes as green and restless as a storm-tossed sea. Even when our mother started screaming.

Sorrell took a deep breath. My son Nairen held up a hand. Don't try to play the "my grief is greater than yours" game, he warned. I've heard it all before.

He stood abruptly and walked to the exit. Slowly, Sorrell rose to his feet and walked back to where Pendaran crouched beside the corpse.

Pendaran glanced up at him. Have you ever been to Amrutlar?

Sorrell frowned at the odd question. Yes. Years ago.

How far would you say it is from the Yuirwood, by surface travel?

Sorrell shrugged. A tenday. Or maybe a tenday and a hand, depending on the weather. Why?

Pendaran gestured at the corpse. The city she named-Brundag-lies roughly under Amrutlar. A journey through the Underdark would take twice as long. Interconnected passageways stretching for such a distance are hardly likely.

Sorrell could see where the sun elfs thoughts were leading. A portal?

Pendaran nodded. He turned back to the corpse. "Where is the portal that the scouts will use to reach Brundag?"

"In the maglustarn sarg zhaunil."

Sorrell leaned closer. What did she just say?

Nothing that will help, Pendaran answered. "Place-apart of battle-might learning"-a drow term for a warriors' academy that isn't within a city. It could be anywhere. We need something more specific in order for Koora to find it with her magic.

As the sun elf stared at him, Sorrell realized that Pendaran expected him to have the answer. All Sorrell knew about the Blackened Fist was that he wanted them dead.

Sorrell wet his lips. The academy doesn't have a name?

What do you mean?

They always do, in the ballads. Have a name. Palaces, temples…

Pendaran's eyes brightened. Let's find out. Then, to the corpse. "What is the name of your academy?" "Maglustarn Jainna'hil Krish."

Monastery of the Black Fist, Pendaran repeated. Got that, Koora? Got it!

Pendaran stood. Close up on me, and get ready to move out.

The others acknowledged his order and began making their way to the cave. When Koora entered, her face was even grimmer than usual. After a brief, private exchange with her, Pendaran turned to the group.

The academy is inside a faerzress, he told them.

The others glanced at each other, uneasy.

What… does that mean? Sorrell blurted.

A faerzress distorts magic, Pendaran explained. If we try to teleport into it, we'll wind up inside solid stone.

Should we split up? Adair asked. That will guarantee that some of us will live to carry on the hunt.

Pendaran shook his head. No use. The thalakz has too good a lead. If we don't teleport, we won't catch them. But-this could be it. Short of a miracle, we're not going to make it.

May Shevarash grant one, Koora whispered. And if we do make it, I'll need every one of you, Pendaran continued.

There was silence for a moment. "I'm ready," Koora said. "So are-"

"— we," the brothers answered, nearly as one.

Sorrell took a deep breath, and met the leader's eye. "To continue on, until our own deaths should come." I'm in.

Pendaran nodded, as if he'd expected no less. Good. Let's go.

Sorrell gripped his club. "Vengeance," he whispered. And he remembered…

He and Dalmara had been passing through Shadowdale, on their way to Tilverton, and had stopped for the night at the Old Skull, an inn named after a nearby, dome-shaped hill of white granite. The place had a cozy feel, with a low, smoke-stained ceiling of hardwood beams and a warm fire crackling in the hearth to ward off the night's chill. They had earned their supper through song; he playing his lute, and she, her dulcimer. Taking turns, one sang while the other kept an eye on Remmie.

They had been hoping that Remmie would fall asleep, but the boy was, as usual, basking in the attention the inn's patrons were giving him. Sorrell had made a tiny lute for his son, and Remmie had been "playing" it furiously that night, strumming away-still with no idea of how to finger a chord-and making up a song of his own, to the delight of the patrons.

"Daddy is happy; Daddy play his loo," he cooed. "Mama is sing; Mama play duller." The patrons roared their laughter as Remmie took a bow, beaming. "Clap!" he told them. "Clap-clap!"

There had been ale that night, and laughter, and more song. Sorrell had thought that Dalmara had ushered Remmie up to bed in their room; Dalamara thought Sorrell had taken him. Sorrell still remembered the horrified look on his wife's face, and the hollow that opened at the pit of his stomach when they realized their son had wandered off on his own.

"He can't have gone far," Sorrell reassured her, praying that it was true.

"We'll find him," she said, her own eyes worried.

Sorrell set his lute aside, stood. "Has anyone seen our son?"

Shoulders were shrugged, heads shook.

That was when the scream had come from the inn's cellar, followed by a shout and the clash of steel on steel.

Sorrell had to fight his way through the crush of people who blocked his way to the cellar door. He could only vaguely remember the white-faced barmaid who passed him on her way up the stairs, and the ranger who stood, sword in hand, staring at the crossbow bolt lodged in his leg. He could no longer remember exactly what the ranger looked like-tall or short, fair-haired or dark, human or elf. His eyes would take in nothing that night but the dagger that lay on the floor-and the body of his son lying next to it.

He remembered scooping his son's body up in his arms, howling, "No, no, no, no…" as the tiny head fell back on a limp neck. The head he'd cradled, oh so carefully, when his son was still too young to hold it upright on his own. He remembered Dalmara appearing at his side, screaming, "He's going cold!" as she shook Remmie's arm, trying desperately to make him wake up. Remembered the wound: a terrible bloody puncture in his son's hand-a hand that should have been holding a child-sized lute, lay trampled on the floor beside them. Imagined his son, terrified, trying to fend off the dagger. He remembered the ranger saying, "It's no use. The blade was poisoned," each word a cold stone laid on Sorrell's heart. Remembered someone, upstairs, shouting for a cleric. None came.

That was when Dalmara, her face white as bone and her eyes already red with tears, had spoken the awful truth. "Remmie is unpledged. No god will claim him. He will enter the Fugue Plain alone." Her eye fell on the poisoned dagger. Her expression turned steely. "I will not… let the demons… have my son."

She picked up the dagger.

Sorrell grabbed her wrist. "No! I won't let you!"

Dalmara's eyes became ice. She turned the dagger hilt toward him. "Then you do it."

Sorrell's felt his eyes widen. He released her wrist. "I love you," was all he'd been able to manage.

Dalmara hugged him fiercely-and carefully, as if Remmie was still alive and she was afraid of crushing him. "Until Arvandor," she whispered.

Then she pricked her palm with the dagger.

That had been two years ago. Since then, Sorrell had learned that the Old Skull Inn concealed an entrance to the Underdark, and that the drow who had killed his son that night were most likely assassins who had tried-and failed-to kill a famous wizard who had been visiting Shadowdale that evening. Sorrell pieced together what had happened: Remmie had wandered down to the cellar and surprised the drow as they emerged from their secret hole. He'd been "silenced"-even though he was barely three years old, still full of baby talk and babble that probably wouldn't have been understood by anyone but his parents, two elf bards ignorant of the secret doings of the Dales. And his death had been pointless; a moment later, the serving girl and the ranger, intent upon a liaison, had descended to the cellar and also surprised the drow. Despite taking a crossbow bolt in the leg, the ranger had managed to raise the alarm and drive the drow back below. And he'd knocked the poisoned dagger out of the last drow's hand.

A hand which, the ranger's keen eyes had noted, had been coated in a layer of pitch.

Sorrell had learned everything he could about the Blackened Fist in the months since then-though what he'd learned had been precious little. But Shevarash had rewarded his persistence. In just a few moments, Sorrell was either going to avenge his family, or die trying.

Sorrell gripped his club tightly in one hand. His other hand was on Pendaran's shoulder as the leader whispered the prayer that would send them either into the drow stronghold-or, more likely, into solid rock, spilling their spirits into the Fugue Plain. Sorrell wondered which god would claim him and carry him to Arvandor. Would Corellon Larethian summon him to sing at his side? Or would Shevarash claim Sorrell to join him in his grim wanderings? Perhaps both would find him wanting, and Sorrell's spirit would linger on the Fugue Plain for all eternity.

Nairen kissed the blade of his sword, then locked eyes with his half-brother. Adair took a deep breath, nodded. Koora raised her right hand above her head, sling trailing from her fist, in Shevarash's defiant salute. She caught Sorrell's eye. A rush of exultation filled his heart. Soon, he told himself, Shevarash willing, he might be killing the very drow who had murdered his son.

Pendaran completed his prayer.

Adair's voice: Here we The tearing sensation came. Sorrell closed his eyes. -Go!

The world went white with Shevarash's holy fire. Sorrell's body was yanked through space… Dalmara, he thought, panicked, I'm coming. I'll find you.

His feet touched solid ground.

He gasped. Glanced down, saw the dull purple of cold stone. He wasn't dead!

Flash! Pendaran shouted. The leader's hand swept down, releasing a flash gem.

Sorrell had only a heartbeat in which to register the room they had teleported to. A large, circular hall, with eight arched exits leading to corridors. The statue of a spider, carved from glossy black obsidian, stood at the center of the room on fragile-looking legs. On the far side of it were three drow: two males, kneeling before a larger female. As the flash gem clattered toward them between the legs of the statue the males sprang to their feet and yanked daggers from sheaths on their belts. The female leaped into the air, levitating.

The gem…

Sorrell screwed his eyes shut just as a silent flash of white filled the room. The instant it was dark again he ran forward, club swinging.

The two males stood blinking, their pupils mere pinpricks. The one that Nairen and Adair rushed had the presence of mind to cock his head sideways, listening, and to slash with his dagger. He died with Adair's spear through his chest as Nairen's sword lopped off his arm at the elbow.

The other male turned and bolted for a corridor. Sorrell heard a sling stone whistle past his ear. It slammed into the back of the drow's head, staggering him. Sorrell swung his club in a sweeping arc. It connected with the head of the reeling drow, shattering it like a gnarlwood nut. Chunks of brain, glowing a bright red to Sorrell's magically enhanced vision, slid from the ruined head as the body fell.

Sorrell stood, panting. His first drow kill! He should have been exulting, but instead he felt only a sick revulsion.

He heard a sob above him. He glanced up and saw the female drow, still levitating, shudder with grief. Tears poured from her eyes. For a moment, he thought she was mourning the two males. They looked young enough to be her sons. Then he realized that Pendaran was casting a spell at her. The sun elf pointed at the drow, his lips moving in silent prayer.

With a violent shake of her head, the drow shook the spell off.

Pendaran cursed.

Koora whipped her arm forward. Another sling stone whistled past, shattering on the wall just behind the female drow's head. The drow-not blinded, she must have realized what the flash gem was and closed her eyes in time-whirled in midair to stare at the spot the stone had come from and shouted something in the drow language. A spider the size of a large dog appeared in midair, and fell onto Koora's shoulders.

Soul spider! Koora gasped. Suddenly the wild elf was fighting for her life.

Sorrell took a step toward her.

The priestess! Pendaran shouted, nocking an arrow in his bow. Attack her!

The drow dropped to the floor behind Sorrell. He whirled, swinging his club. The drow dodged the blow without effort, as though she could see him. Adair hurled his spear at her, but she sidestepped it. She leaped toward Adair, one foot extended in a kick. He ducked, and she missed, spinning gracefully on her other foot directly into the path of Nairen, who held his sword ready to deliver a killing slash. The blade swept down-but then the drow seemed to blur. As Nairen's weapon slashed through empty air, throwing him off balance, the drow crashed into him, chest to chest, and sank her teeth into his cheek.

The cheek Nairen had washed clean, back in the drider's cavern.

The moon elf stiffened. Adair scrambled to get one of the potion vials out of his belt. "Nairen!" he gasped aloud.

Pendaran's bow twanged. One of his black-shafted arrows plunged into the drow's back and found her heart. Twitching like a crushed spider, she fell.

So did Nairen, his face already paling to a dull purple. His half-brother rushed to his side, ripped the cork out of the vial he held with his teeth, and fought to pull Nairen's mouth open. Locked in a death grimace, the jaw wouldn't budge.

Sorrell heard a cracking noise behind him. He turned, saw Koora with her arms wrapped around the spider. As she slowly squeezed it, her body glowed with Shevarash's fire. A final crunch, and the spider was dead. Koora, however, staggered as she let its body fall. Despite her armor paint, her arms had several deep, bloody puncture marks. As Pendaran turned toward her, a look of concern on his face, she swayed, steadied herself with a hand against the wall.

I'm good, she said. Just a little drained. Are the corridors clear?

Koora held out a palm, swept it in a circle while she prayed. Nothing.

Pendaran nodded and turned his attention to the brothers. Adair had peeled back Nairen's lower lip and was pouring the potion onto his brother's clenched teeth. Most of the liquid dribbled down Nairen's chin, a grim echo of the corpse in the drider cavern.

Pendaran lowered his bow. He's gone, Adair, he said quietly. Gone to Shevarash.

The half-elf turned, his eyes dangerous. No.

Pendaran's voice was steely. Yes. He pointed at Adair's spear. Now on your feet, warrior, and grab that weapon. Don't let his sacrifice be for nothing.

Adair hesitated.

Move!

Adair snapped erect. He strode across the cavern and picked up his spear.

Pendaran, behind him, closed his eyes and sighed. His mental voice, however, retained its steely control. We've got to move quickly. Sorrell, keep watch. Koora, conceal the bodies. And Adair… collect your brother. I'll find out where the portal is. He squatted beside the dead female and whispered a prayer. Her lips began to glow with Shevarash's light.

Holding his club at the ready, Sorrell glanced back and forth, trying to keep an eye on all eight of the chamber's exits at once. His eye kept straying, however, to the dark elf he had killed. Now that the fight was over, he noticed the drow's age. Judging by what remained of his face, he looked like a boy in his teens.

As Pendaran questioned the dead priestess, asking where the portal was, Koora walked, slowly and unsteadily, to the body Sorrell had been staring at and prayed over it. The dull glow of warmth that remained in the body winked out as it was rendered invisible. She crossed the chamber, and did the same to the other male corpse. Adair, meanwhile, straightened his brother's body, picking up Nairen's sword and laying it across his chest. Then he pulled from a pouch at his belt a large bag of a thin, glossy material that was as thin and slippery as silk. Opening it, he tucked Nairen's feet inside. It seemed only large enough to accommodate Nairen's lower legs, but it kept going, swallowing Nairen whole. As Adair pulled the drawstring shut, the bag collapsed, seemingly empty once more. Adair folded it, and tucked it back into his pouch. Then he picked up his spear.

He glanced at Sorrell and touched the pouch.

Sorrell nodded. Necessary sacrifices.

Sorrell heard a faint noise. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something in one of the corridors. He whirled…

And saw a tiny figure. A drow child, not even as tall as Remmie. A child whose mouth was open in an O of surprise, whose eyes were wide and fixed on the dead woman whose creaking voice filled the chamber as she answered Pendaran's questions.

"Ma?" the boy whispered, tears starting to spill from his eyes.

The word was the same, in any language.

Sorrell leaped forward and grabbed the boy. He clapped a hand over the boy's mouth. The boy went rigid with fear. Then he began to struggle. And to wail, behind Sorrell's muffling hand.

Shut him up! Adair shouted.

Sorrell glanced up. The half-elf had his spear raised. Sorrell would have to work quickly. Clutching the little boy against his chest, he started to sing. "Birds have flown home-"

Pendaran scrambled to his feet. I've got it! The portal's close by!

The boy twisted like an eel, nearly slipping free. Do it! Koora raged. The spider kissers' brat will give us away.

I'm trying! Sorrell kept singing: "-to their nests. I know we all could use some rest."

Pendaran nocked an arrow. Kill him now, or get out of the way.

I'm putting him to sleep.

He's a drow! Adair gritted.

Sorrell continued his song. A moment more, and the child would be asleep. He's a child.

Koora's swift fingers loaded a stone into her sling. He's a spider kisser, she hissed. Vermin.

Sorrell halted his song, glanced from one face to the next. He saw the same emotion on each: hatred. And an utter lack of pity. Had their skin been black, they could have been drow.

The fist of ice that was Sorrell's heart finally cracked. "No!" he shouted, turning his back on the others, still holding the struggling boy in his arms. "The boy's not going to give us away. He isn't even old enough to talk ye-"

Koora's sling stone slammed into the back of his head, filling Sorrell's vision with sparks of white light almost as bright as Shevarash's cold white fire.

Almost.

Sorrell shook his head. He rose to his feet, and staggered away with the child in his arms. One step, two… But the pain in his head was too much. He sagged to his knees, still hugging the small boy against his chest. The boy's hair smelled like Remmie's had, brought back a flood of memories. Sorrell stared back over his shoulder at the Silent Slayers, tears stinging his own eyes.

"Please," he begged. "Don't-"

Pendaran's bow thrummed. Sorrell grunted as the arrow tore a sharp line of pain through his body.

He felt a soft, startled breath against his hand as it found the boy's heart.

Two figures stood together on a gray, featureless plain, under a sky filled with flat gray clouds. An elf with coppery skin and reddish brown hair, the hand that once held a club empty at his side-and a child with skin the, color of midnight, bone-white hair, and wide, bewildered eyes. The man glanced up at the sky, as if searching for something. The sky remained flat and empty. The man nodded, as if that was what he'd expected. He squatted next to the boy, extending his arms, and said something in a soft voice. After a moment's hesitation, the boy allowed himself to be embraced. A tear trickled down the man's cheek as he hugged the boy tightly. Then he smiled.

The man stood, cradling the boy in strong arms, and began the long, slow walk to the horizon, singing softly as he went.