getting as far away from her as quickly as possible.
To the side lay the ruined porch, a dark form curled under a pile of splintered wood.
“By the gods,” Therfus mumbled, staring dumbfounded below.
“I offer you the chance to flee this place,” Beniago said.
“In the name of Kurth?” the wizard snapped back at him.
“In any name you please.”
“Do you know who this is?” the wizard spat.
“A mercenary of Bregan D’aerthe, I assume,” Beniago replied, and his grin showed that he was well aware that he was taunting Therfus.
“Not him, the female,” Therfus stated flatly.
“We know.”
“Then you know of Dahlia’s history with my Ship. She’s a murderess, and Borlann Rethnor her victim!”
Beniago nodded.
“She murdered my friend! My captain!” Therfus said with a growl. “You would deny me this retribution?”
Beniago brandished that terrible jeweled dagger, and given the reputation of both the blade and the assassin holding it, Therfus understood well the depth of that threat. Beniago could stab him before he could begin to defend, physically or magically, and with that blade, it would only take one wound to kill him.
Therfus glanced all around. He heard the black panther and followed the sound of the roar to the roof, where new warriors—men serving Kurth, no doubt—had taken control.
He looked back to Beniago and his knife.
“Closeguard Isle will pay for this outrage,” Therfus promised as he took several quick steps away from the assassin. “This is a grave betrayal, I warn!”
Beniago merely shrugged.
Dahlia heard Guenhwyvar land behind her as she charged to the porch rubble. She batted aside one loose board before Drizzt began to pull himself up from the wreckage.
He glanced behind her and suddenly stopped moving.
“Stand easy, Guen,” he whispered.
The panther issued a low growl in response.
Dahlia slowly turned around.
A group of men stood in front of her, all holding bows, save one who leveled a wand in Dahlia’s direction.
“Keep your cat at bay,” the warlock with the wand warned.
“Yes, do,” added a tall man in a dark cloak, walking out of the alleyway directly across from the fallen porch. “I am Beniago,” he explained with a low bow. “Your presence is requested at Ship Kurth, forthwith.”
“And I suppose I would have no choice in the matter?” Drizzt asked.
“It would seem not,” Beniago replied.
“Better than Ship Rethnor,” Dahlia said to Drizzt.
Drizzt stared at her hard, his scowl placing blame for this turn of events on Dahlia’s pretty shoulders. But his anger couldn’t withstand Beniago’s next remark.
“You’re both wanted,” he said.
Drizzt studied Beniago carefully. He’d never met this one, but the man’s easy posture warned him that he was no novice with the blade. He and Dahlia were certainly and undeniably caught.
Still, Drizzt looked for weakness, for some seam in the leather armor, for some option should the need arise.
His scan ended at the man’s belt, at the hilt of that distinctive blade. Memories of a distant past flooded Drizzt’s thoughts.
It couldn’t be the same blade, the drow told himself.
But the enemy he’d known who had carried such a dagger had likely been in Luskan, with Jarlaxle, perhaps even at the time of his death.
It was possible.
“Forthwith,” Beniago repeated, forcefully drawing Drizzt from his contemplation. The drow looked up at the tall man, almost expecting to see an old enemy standing in front of him. But this man was taller, lighter skinned, with curly red hair … and a hundred years too young!
Beniago motioned to Drizzt to follow Dahlia, who had moved several steps away. He did so, with a grin on his face.
Perhaps one of the problems of living so long a life, he mused, was the jumble of memories—too many memories!—which inevitably found their way to his consciousness at the slightest provocation. He glanced again at the dagger and laughed at himself, certain now that it was a different blade.
But only because it had to be. The world had moved on.
HADENCOURT PAUSED OUTSIDE OF ASHENGLADE TO ADMIRE ITS construction, and though he knew it had been created magically, it still seemed impossible to him that so much had been built in so short a time. Hadencourt wasn’t quite as committed to Szass Tam, and by extension Sylora Salm, as he was to the Ashmadai zealots, but he had to give credit where credit was due.
Ashenglade was not the work of Asmodeus or any other denizen of the Nine Hells. It was the work of the Thayan Dread Ring.
As he approached the gates of the fortress, he faced a phalanx of grim-faced Ashmadai guards and a host of zombie minions, but