BARRABUS THE GRAY WAS SURPRISED AT HOW EASILY HE CAUGHT up to Sylora’s allies—to Dahlia, at least. When he found their camp that night, soon after sunset, the drow was nowhere to be seen. Barrabus encircled the camp quietly a few times, wondering how Drizzt’s absence might affect his plans—designs still only just beginning to form. He wondered how he could he work the arrival of Drizzt Do’Urden to his favor, but the answer remained just out of reach.
Not sure how he would react when confronted by the drow ranger, he was glad he saw no sign of Drizzt. Theirs was an antagonism of another era, a bitter bloodlust, never quite a rivalry, never quite an alliance. The mere thought of Drizzt sent Barrabus’s thoughts cascading across the years to a time that seemed so long ago, to a place that seemed so far removed from the shadows and ruin of present day Faer?n.
The assassin shook away those distractions and refocused his thinking on the situation at hand. With only an unsuspecting Dahlia standing in front of him, he dared hope he could finish his mission and be gone before Drizzt returned.
Or did he?
Perhaps he truly wished to face Drizzt again. Didn’t a small part of the man who had become Barrabus the Gray want to be back in that other time and place? Again, he shook the distraction away.
“This is your chance,” he whispered under his breath, and that reminder put him fully back in the present.
He took a deep breath and considered his options. If anyone could defeat Herzgo Alegni, it was surely Drizzt, after all.
So if Barrabus could capture Dahlia and take her back to Alegni, that would likely bring Drizzt against the Netherese lord. Surely Drizzt Do’Urden would never abandon a companion to such a fate.
Of course, a captured Dahlia wouldn’t last very long with Alegni. Barrabus winced as he considered the Ashmadai woman he’d captured outside of Neverwinter. He’d brought her back in, put her in a secure place, and given orders to the guards not to harm her.
And that was the last Barrabus had ever seen the woman alive, or even in one piece, for the guards had informed Alegni of his demands. Simply because Barrabus had claimed the captive as his own, Herzgo Alegni had made her death particularly cruel.
He’d do the same with Dahlia, of course—perhaps even more so because she brought the added weight of being Sylora Salm’s murderous champion.
So be it, and such an event might even work more to his benefit, Barrabus mused. If the drow understood that Alegni had killed Dahlia in a most horrible way, Drizzt would exact swift vengeance on Barrabus’s hated master.
That was Barrabus’s hope, then, as he sat just outside the firelight of the small encampment, watching Dahlia’s movements as she set the bedrolls and performed other mundane tasks. Yes, a capture would be best. He focused on that as he watched her building a fire, and reminded himself of the difficulty presented by either task, capture or assassination, though the latter seemed much easier.
He reminded himself that this elf, Dahlia, was fearless and could fight.
He had to take her fast, without a struggle. He scanned the camp, noting that Dahlia had her weapon broken into flails and within easy reach on her hips, looped under her sash belt. To the side lay a fallen tree, propping the backpacks and bedrolls, and farther beyond that, slung over a low branch were saddlebags—rations, likely—and beside those, hooked on a broken limb, a green cloak, one side of it fairly shredded.
Barrabus glanced around and stealthily moved to the side. He retrieved an armful of kindling first, then got the cloak, apparently without attracting any attention. He donned the cloak and pulled the hood low over his face.
Still, fearing that wasn’t enough, he went into the firelight, bent low, and turned sidelong, even walking backward more than forward, clutching the pile of kindling up high to help shield his identity.
“Drop it there,” Dahlia instructed, pointing to the side of the fire and showing little interest in what seemed to be her returning companion.
Once he’d set events into motion, Barrabus rarely second-guessed himself. But he was doing so now, trying to anticipate every moment, and fearing that his desperation to be rid of Alegni had made him reckless. This was Drizzt Do’Urden and Dahlia he’d tracked down, not a pair of ridiculous Ashmadai zealots!
The whole plan seemed absurd to him suddenly, and he wondered if he should drop the kindling and run off into the forest night.
He did drop the kindling, but then he struck, sword and dagger out and swinging.
To his surprise, Dahlia was ready, her weapons coming into her agile hands and going into sudden blocks and counters. He had the initiative, but not the surprise!
How could that be?
He went at her furiously, knowing that his advantage, slim as it might be, would prove short-lived.
In those few heartbeats of battle, his desperation to win multiplied a hundred-fold because of the implications it held against Alegni, Barrabus the Gray fought better than ever he could remember. He worked his sword in a brilliant overspin, dodging Dahlia’s blocking flail, and bore forward, accepting a stinging hit from the elf’s other weapon but getting in close in exchange. His dagger moved up for a finishing position against the elf’s throat. He would have her surrender, or he would have her life.
Except that a dark form dropped from above, landing just behind him. Even as his dagger climbed up to score the victory, a scimitar crashed atop his skull, staggering him to the side. Before he could come up straight and offer a defense, Drizzt worked that blade and the other inside Barrabus’s arms, one tip coming in against the would-be assassin’s throat.
So he would die, and Alegni would bring him back and torment him all the more. Or perhaps, Barrabus wondered in that last breath, the Dread Ring would catch him first and animate him as a zombie.
Better that!
Dahlia had warned Drizzt quite succinctly and repeatedly about the Netherese champion, the stealthy killer. That was why Drizzt had doubled back several times after they’d entered the area, and particularly after their battle with the Shadovar patrol.
So when Drizzt had ostensibly gone off that night to gather firewood, which they didn’t need, the drow had actually climbed a tree and slipped from branch to branch to get back near the campsite.
He saw the sudden movement of the murderer executing a brilliant overspin defense, and saw Dahlia taken back and nearly overwhelmed.
Perhaps she would have been beaten, but Drizzt wasn’t about to let it come to that.
In short order, he turned the tables, and had Barrabus the Gray helpless and about to die.
In short order, Drizzt looked into the eyes of the Netherese champion, facing the man the moment before his scimitar plunged home.
But he didn’t strike—he couldn’t strike. Paralyzed by a flood of memories that nearly knocked him from his feet, not by any countering move, but by the simple truth of the moment, Drizzt gaped. The skin tone was wrong, of course, being grayer than Drizzt remembered it, but the overall impression, the way he moved, his features …
“Artemis Entreri,” Drizzt whispered in shock. He wondered if he was just fooling himself, if the spectacle of Beniago’s too-familiar dagger had begun Drizzt thinking about his old nemesis.
The drow’s blade dipped precipitously—enough so that Barrabus, had he been thinking of a counter, might have broken away.
“Artemis Entreri,” Drizzt whispered again, shaking his head, wondering if this might be the assassin’s son—or great, great, great grandson, more likely.
The Netherese champion, this Barrabus the Gray, smiled as if in admission of the absurdity of it all.
“It cannot be,” Drizzt said, more forcefully, and he reset the blade against the assassin’s throat and forced him back against a thick tree.
“Finish him!” Dahlia insisted, but when she moved forward, Drizzt’s free arm snapped out to the side to hold her back.
“Well met, again, Drizzt Do’Urden,” said Barrabus the Gray. He looked down at the scimitar, chuckled, and added sardonically, “As well met as ever, it would seem.”
“Who are you?”
“You spoke my name—twice,” the assassin replied.
“He’s deceiving you!” Dahlia insisted.
“Though it’s a name I’ve not heard, and have not used, in many years,” the assassin continued, though he barely got the words out as Drizzt pressed him more tightly with the scimitar, prompted by Dahlia’s warning.
“The name I spoke was that of a man who would be dead for more than half a century, even if he lived a very long life.”
“Life is full of surprises,” the assassin replied flippantly.
Drizzt tightened the blade, drawing some blood.
“How fares Jarlaxle, who betrayed me to the Netherese?” the assassin asked, dropping his sword and dirk to the ground.
That name gave Drizzt pause, for of course, the last time he’d heard of Artemis Entreri, the assassin had indeed been traveling with Jarlaxle.
“Is this your new bride?” Barrabus asked, turning his gaze to Dahlia. “She fights well—better than Catti-brie …” He went up on his toes as Drizzt moved the deadly scimitar in even tighter, drawing a grimace in addition to more blood.
“Never speak that name,” Drizzt warned.
“When I had Catti-brie captured, before we ever met, did I harm her?” the man asked, and with that, Drizzt knew.
Beyond any doubt, he knew.
The shocked drow stepped back, despite the protests of Dahlia.
“You should be long dead,” he said.
“So should you,” Artemis Entreri replied. “I killed you in a crystal tower, in single combat.”
Drizzt’s mind flew back to that moment. Jarlaxle had arranged the duel, in a magical tower chamber full of obstacles—props for the showdown between mortal enemies. Drizzt believed he had the fight won, but Entreri had countered with some magic against which Drizzt, caught so unprepared, had no practical defense. Entreri’s claim was correct: He had killed Drizzt in that tower the last time the two had crossed paths, and crossed swords, and only the intervention of Jarlaxle and his companion, a mighty mind-mage from Menzoberranzan, had brought Drizzt back from the edge of oblivion.
Drizzt had felt deceived by the psionicist’s intervention in that personal duel, and felt it again as he recalled that long-ago day. Apparently Jarlaxle had deceived Entreri as well, for the assassin’s surprise that Drizzt remained alive seemed genuine enough.
“You beat me fairly?” Drizzt had to ask, a wee bit of his pride forcing the question despite their more pressing issue—like what he and Dahlia might do with the likes of a captured Artemis Entreri!
“I beat you because that wretch Kimmuriel lent me his strange psionic power, and he did so without my asking.”
“You admit it?”
Entreri held up his hands helplessly.
Drizzt didn’t know what to think, what to feel. This was Artemis Entreri before him, of that he had no doubt. And yet, strangely, he was not prepared to strike at the assassin. He had no intention of killing Entreri. Drizzt couldn’t yet sort through his feelings at seeing this man who should be long dead, but he recognized those feelings clearly, and if he denied them, he would be a liar, to himself above all others.
He was not unhappy to see Artemis Entreri. Quite the contrary, Drizzt Do’Urden felt somehow relieved, wistful even, to find a remnant of those long ago days standing in front of him. Perhaps it was the recent loss of Bruenor, the last of his old friends, the last of the other Companions of the Hall, that granted Artemis Entreri more leniency than he deserved, and which facilitated more charity than seemed reasonable and sensible, than seemed perhaps even safe, from Drizzt.
“What are you doing?” Dahlia demanded, and her voice became more desperate as Drizzt slid his scimitars away.
“Why are you here?” Drizzt demanded.
Artemis Entreri rubbed his throat and considered the blood on his fingers. He glanced over at Dahlia again and said with complete calm, “To kill her.”
He looked back at Drizzt again, shrugged, and laughed in a self-deprecating way. “That’s what I’ve been told to do, at least.”
“Care to try?” Drizzt asked.
Entreri laughed again and asked, “Why are you here?”
“You expect me to tell you?”
“No need,” Entreri assured him, and he nodded his chin at Dahlia. “Sylora Salm’s champion and I are acquainted, and since Sylora and my master have become mortal enemies, so I’m charged with defeating her champion. You’re here to serve Sylora, which surprises me.” He ended with a little laugh.
Drizzt gave a quick glance over at Dahlia, who remained stone-faced.
“I wouldn’t expect Drizzt Do’Urden to fight in support of Szass Tam, Sylora’s master,” Entreri went on, and now there was a level of taunting entering his tone. “The archlich of Thay, who hates all living creatures. Does Mielikki approve of your choice, or have you seen enough of the world’s darkness to dismiss the pretty lies of gentle souls?”
Again Drizzt looked back at Dahlia, and this time he nodded ever so slightly. Dahlia’s expression remained tight and she shook her head, again slightly, in response.
When Drizzt turned back to Entreri, the drow was grinning.
“I come not to serve Sylora,” the drow explained, “but to kill her.” The assassin tried unsuccessfully to hide his surprise by laughing at him.
“Sylora facilitated the death of Bruenor Battlehammer,” Drizzt said, stealing Entreri’s doubting mirth.
“You have chosen your companion poorly, then,” Entreri said.
“I battled beside Dahlia against Sylora’s minions in Gauntlgrym,” Drizzt replied. “Dahlia is no friend to the sorceress of Thay, nor to Szass Tam.”
“Nor to Shadovar dogs,” Dahlia added, spitting every word, and if she were trying to intimidate the man she knew as Barrabus the Gray, her words had an opposite effect.
“I’m fortunate that I’m no Shadovar, then,” he said lightheartedly.
“Any Netherese will do,” Dahlia assured him.
“I’m fortunate that I’m not Netherese, then,” came the quick retort.
Dahlia narrowed her eyes and studied him curiously, her gaze scanning all areas of his exposed gray skin.
“They pay you well, then,” Drizzt reasoned. “Ever was Artemis Entreri for sale to the highest bidder.”
He was surprised by Entreri’s reaction, the assassin’s face tightening into a grimace, and Drizzt knew immediately that Entreri’s relationship with the Netherese was not a bargain of gold coins. Entreri had claimed he served a master, but Drizzt understood then that it was not by choice.
Entreri stared hard at him.
“What is it?” Drizzt asked.
Entreri didn’t blink.
“If not gold, then what?” Drizzt demanded. He draped his wrists over his sword hilts, a poignant reminder of who held the upper hand. “Why would Artemis Entreri serve the Nether—” He stopped and considered Entreri’s earlier words, a claim that Jarlaxle had betrayed him to the Netherese. Instead of continuing with the line of reasoning, Drizzt looked into the eye of his old enemy and asked, simply, “Why?”
“Because he has my sword,” Entreri admitted after a long pause.
“Khazid’hea?” Drizzt asked, and he was a bit confused, for as far as he knew, that sword was still in the possession of the dark elf To’sun Armgo, who lived in the Moonwood in the Silver Marches.
Entreri considered him with a bit of obvious puzzlement, then nodded, as if realizing something. “You wouldn’t know of Claw,” he explained. “Charon’s Claw, actually. Truly a mighty blade, greater by far than Khazid’hea.”
“And you wish to have it back, so you serve the hateful Empire of Netheril?”
“I wish it destroyed!” Entreri countered angrily, but that fast melted into resignation. He laughed helplessly. “I’m its slave. The Shadovar lord in Neverwinter holds the sword, my sword, and it has taken power over me.” He looked over at Dahlia. “And so I’m compelled to kill you,” he explained with a shrug. “Nothing personal.”
His flippant remark had Dahlia advancing a step, her hands going to her weapons, before Drizzt intercepted her.
“He would prefer death,” the woman protested.
“Indeed!” Entreri agreed, and Drizzt looked at him curiously.
“If you could,” Entreri explained.
“He just had his blade to your throat,” Dahlia reminded the assassin.
“But the sword would just bring me back to fight you again,” Entreri went on, ignoring her. Again he looked past Drizzt to Dahlia, and this time, there was more sadness than cleverness showing on his face.
“You’re a slave to a sword you once possessed?” Drizzt asked.
“If I don’t work to its ends, I’m tormented.” He shook his head. “You cannot imagine the torment, my old nemesis. It would do your mother proud.”
Drizzt scrutinized him closely and understood from the assassin’s truly helpless expression—a visage that seemed so out of place on the face of Artemis Entreri!—that the assassin was not exaggerating.
“And its ends include killing Dahlia?” Drizzt asked.
Entreri shrugged. “That’s part of it.”
“Then you die,” Dahlia interrupted, but Drizzt continued to hold her back, and he silenced her with a look.
“Does Dahlia truly matter?” Drizzt asked, drawing confused expressions from both of the others. “Or is she a means to an end?”
“What are you plotting here?” Dahlia demanded, but Drizzt ignored her.
“She’s an obstacle in my master’s way,” said Entreri.
“But not the goal?”
“An obstacle to the goal,” Entreri replied, and Drizzt grinned, catching on.
“Then help us to kill Sylora,” Drizzt reasoned, and Dahlia’s gasp did not deter him. “Is that not the greater prize your master seeks?”
Entreri answered with a nod as he considered the reasoning, and the possibilities.
“Killing Dahlia, who vows to kill Sylora, wouldn’t please your master, then,” said Drizzt.
“You would ally with us?” a skeptical Entreri asked. “I witnessed your work on the Shadovar patrol north of Neverwinter.”
“Ally with a Shadovar, a Netherese pig?” Dahlia replied, equally incredulous. “Never that!”
“Artemis Entreri is neither,” Drizzt assured her. “Why not, then?” he asked both of them.
“It’s often claimed that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Entreri replied with a shrug.
“Are you still my enemy?” Drizzt asked him.
Entreri laughed a bit as he considered that. “I grew bored with you more than a century ago. To think me your enemy would be to think I care about you one way or the other.”
“And for me?” asked Dahlia. “You just admitted you plan to kill me.”
“That can wait.”
“The enemy of my enemy will be my enemy again?”
Entreri smiled wickedly. “We shall see.”
Drizzt turned from him to Dahlia. “It’s settled, then?”
“I intend to kill Sylora,” Dahlia stated flatly. “And I intend to kill any who try to hinder me from experiencing that pleasure.”
“And what of those who would aid you?” Entreri teased. Dahlia turned and walked away.
“Well met again, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Entreri said to the drow, and he motioned down at his dropped blades.
Drizzt glanced at Dahlia, then, and despite himself, shook his head.
“I will not kill her,” Entreri promised. “Nor you.”
Drizzt eyed him with clear doubt.
“I hate my master, while you merely bore me,” Entreri said.
“And Dahlia?”
“She’s my counterpart, the champion of my master’s enemy, as I am my master’s champion. And so we were tasked with our battle, a proxy battle. It really is nothing personal.”
“So you would say,” Drizzt started to reply—started, but the words caught in his throat as Artemis Entreri came forward suddenly, reaching to his belt as he lunged. That buckle became a knife and that knife beat Drizzt to the drow’s throat.
A heartbeat later, Entreri looked into Drizzt’s lavender eyes, stepped back, and dropped his knife, which showed no blood. He held up his hands. “Now you can trust me,” he said.
It took Drizzt several heartbeats to even sort out what had just occurred, and he silently chastised himself for allowing his guard to slip, for forgetting the continuing danger presented by the skilled Artemis Entreri. He could have been murdered, then and there, because his heart had been looking backward, and no doubt doing so with a stilted view of what had once been.
He looked at Entreri then, standing unarmed and at ease. He looked down at Entreri’s buckle knife, an ample weapon with which Entreri might have cut out Drizzt’s throat.
Drizzt chuckled and turned away from Entreri once more to follow Dahlia. He chastised himself again for being so foolish, but he applauded himself, or was greatly relieved at least, that he’d been right. The fact that he was still drawing breath proved he’d been right.
This man from his past was not his enemy.