Jarlaxle moved his hand out toward Entreri, holding the unremarkable-looking but entirely remarkable mask.
“The choice is yours,” the mercenary leader said to his longtime companion.
Entreri stared at the item long and hard, considering the many days he had worn that mask. He had used it to impersonate Regis, to no good end. He considered, too, the days he had spent in the City of Spiders, which was the whole point of the offer now. A big part of him wanted to never return to that wretched place, but another savored the thought of paying back so many of his tormentors and the sheer joy he would feel in watching the entire societal structure of the udadrow culture burn down.
He was torn, but there was something else mitigating his decision, something he had heard whispered in Jarlaxle’s Luskan tavern, One-Eyed Jax. He held quiet on that, though.
“We’re leaving in an hour,” Jarlaxle said.
“Bruenor said the trails were secure for the first two days?” he said, bringing up a different concern.
“As far as we can tell, yes. Bruenor has forward scouts pressing ever downward. There is no sign of any drow in the upper tunnels anywhere near to Gauntlgrym, nor would I expect any, given the recent reports that the fighting in the city has become open and commonplace. Their eyes are on each other, not on us.”
“The Lolthians will be watching the tunnels for signs of the dwarfs coming to reinforce the Baenres,” Entreri pointed out.
“I don’t fear a scout or ten,” Jarlaxle replied, and he glanced at the man standing across the small room, who had a way of detecting spies before they could detect him.
Entreri regarded Kimmuriel for just a moment, then turned his attention back to the magical mask, a person and an item he hated as much as appreciated. “Leave it with Gromph,” he said.
“And?”
“And if I find the opportunity to follow, I will find you. And if not, I wish you well.”
Jarlaxle stepped back from the man and scrutinized him up and down. “What do you know?”
“Perhaps some things that you know, and that you do not know that I know,” Entreri answered rather curtly.
“My friend, what troubles you?”
“I have some business to attend. Nothing more. Does it shock you to think that my entire life does not circle Jarlaxle like a fly buzzing a road-apple?”
“Artemis?” Jarlaxle asked quite seriously, almost pleadingly. The mercenary leader was truly off his balance here, Entreri saw, and although he was perturbed with the man, he didn’t want to push it too far.
“We have had a grand adventure in the north,” Entreri said. “I am weary.”
“But it was worth the trip, yes?”
“Maybe, but it was one begun under false premises.”
“Ah, you harbor ill will for me . . .”
“No. I simply have other business to attend. We’ve been gone for months.”
“And how long will this other business of yours take?”
“If I knew that, I’d give you my answer now regarding your new adventure.”
“It is much more than an adventure this time,” said Kimmuriel, walking over.
“It is,” Entreri agreed. “And I hold no illusions this time that those who go forth to Menzoberranzan will all return. Not this time.”
“And it is not your fight,” Kimmuriel said evenly, with no judgment in his tone.
“No, it isn’t my fight. But yes,” Entreri added, aiming it at Jarlaxle, “you are my friend and we have been through much together. I would wish to be by your side in this most important play of your life.”
“But you have business.”
“I believe I do.”
“I could help . . .”
“No.” There was no debate in his voice.
Jarlaxle bit off his words and stood staring at the man.
“Give the mask to Gromph,” Entreri instructed again. “If I am able, I will catch up to you.”
“And if not, then this is farewell, and perhaps forever,” said Jarlaxle.
Entreri wasn’t happy about that reality, but it was hung out there as an undeniable possibility. He held out his hand and Jarlaxle clasped it tightly.
“First Zaknafein and now you,” Jarlaxle said. “And here I thought I inspired loyalty.” Jarlaxle couldn’t hold a straight face as he quipped, and Entreri joined him in a laugh—and one that both hoped would not be their last to share.
“What do you know?” Jarlaxle asked Kimmuriel after Entreri had left them.
“I know that the road awaits and I am anxious to be on our way.”
“Need I clarify?”
“I was not in Artemis Entreri’s thoughts during your conversation.”
Jarlaxle held up his hands and wore a perfectly disappointed look. “Is that not why I keep you by my side?”
“One does not ‘keep’ Kimmuriel anything. Besides, I thought he was your friend.”
“When has that ever stopped Kimmuriel from mind reading?”
“Of late,” the humorless Kimmuriel replied, and Jarlaxle became even more off-balance. “Do you not wear your eye patch to prevent my intrusions into your thoughts? Why would others not feel the same?”
“That is different.”
“Why?”
“Because I am . . . Jarlaxle.”
“Our road awaits,” Kimmuriel said and walked away.
Jarlaxle turned to the door through which Entreri had exited, fearing that he would never again see the man with whom he had shared so many grand adventures.
Regis and Donnola walked hand in hand down the platform of the tram that had brought them up from Gauntlgrym, then along the main boulevard in the rebuilt town of Bleeding Vines. Snow covered the yards and fields to either side of the cobblestone street, and a few flakes continued to dance in the wintry breeze.
“You wish you could be with him,” Donnola remarked to the somber Regis.
“I seem to be missing out on many adventures of late.”
“You just returned from a grand rescue in the far north!”
“And there my adventure ended, while the journey for others has continued.”
Donnola laughed at her husband, who turned a scowl her way. “I do understand,” she apologized, and hopped over to kiss him on the cheek.
“This feels like the completion of a circle and I cannot help my friends to connect the last points.”
Donnola nodded sympathetically. “The events in the deep Underdark may indeed prove momentous, but you must see why bringing you to Menzoberranzan might become more a burden than a help. Wulfgar isn’t going, nor even Catti-brie, and witness King Bruenor’s hesitance in even offering the barest support to those who would overthrow the rule of the tyrant Lolth.”
“He should send more,” Regis stated. “He should open the portal and bring in armies from Mithral Hall, Citadel Adbar, and Citadel Felbarr, then lead twenty thousand fierce dwarfs to the drow city himself and be rid of the Lolthians once and for all.”
“Spoken from the luxury of irrelevance,” said Donnola. “Bruenor, not Regis, is the one who will have to attend thousands of funerals for his fallen minions. Not to mention having to concern himself for those that still live under his banner and look to him for safety and succor. And, as you know, it is more than drow against drow. That much has already been made clear. The Abyss itself is coming against those who oppose Lolth.”
“We drove the demons from Gauntlgrym, we can drive them from Menzoberranzan as well. All of them, even Lolth!”
“Again, husband, I do not even disagree with you on the possibilities or the best course of action, but know that if Bruenor did as you wish, the carnage would be remarkable.”
Halfway to their home, then, Regis paused and turned back to the tram and the tunnel to Gauntlgrym. He had hugged Drizzt farewell and watched his friend, along with Jarlaxle, Kimmuriel, Dab’nay, and threescore other Bregan D’aerthe agents, move through the dwarven complex’s lower gate into the lightless tunnels of the upper Underdark.
The Companions of the Hall had been off on their own adventures many times of late, but had always been at their strongest when they fought together, as in the ice cave in the northern glacier. Now, it was Drizzt. Just Drizzt, although he was accompanied by Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel, both worthy and powerful.
Yet they weren’t the Companions. And so the fear and the pain were still there, manifesting as a tightness in the halfling’s chest.
He turned back once more and walked the rest of the way to their home. Regis stood back while Donnola fumbled with the key to their front door, then nearly jumped out of his boots, as did his wife, when that door was opened from within by an unexpected visitor.
“How did you get in?” Donnola asked, and Regis nearly snickered, considering the target of the question. What lock in all the world could even slow this man?
“I would have a word,” Artemis Entreri replied, offering a slight bow to the woman. “With your husband.”
“Have a word with both of us, then,” Donnola replied after glancing back at Regis and noting his nod. “Come and sit by the hearth with me, while Regis brews us some tea.”
Entreri stepped back and let Donnola lead the way. He even started the fire while Regis moved to make the tea, and soon enough, the three of them were sitting on the comfortable chairs before the blaze.
“I didn’t expect to see you now, though I did earlier,” Regis admitted. “I thought you would surely travel with Jarlaxle to the fight. Or at least to the lower gate to say your goodbyes.”
“We already shared our farewells back in Luskan. I delayed to give them a lead to Gauntlgrym through the portal before coming through.”
“Why the mystery?” Donnola asked.
“Not a mystery, just to keep my head clear,” Entreri replied.
“Ah, you, too, wish you could have gone with our friends,” Regis surmised.
“Perhaps. But first I have business. We have business.”
“We?”
“I need your help. I will pay.”
“You’ll get my help if I can, but you’ll not pay. Haven’t we been through enough already to—”
Entreri stopped him with an upraised hand.
“You know of my search?”
Regis shook his head and Donnola said, “No.”
“Your husband incited it,” said Entreri.
Donnola looked curiously at Regis.
“The staff,” Regis said, catching on. “Kozah’s Needle. You went searching for Dahlia, or at least for some news as to why her staff was on the Narwhal when it sank.”
“When the Narwhal was blown to pieces, you mean.”
Regis winced a bit at the reminder. He had helped Jarlaxle sabotage the pirate ship, then watched from the deck of Deudermont’s Revenge as the crew of the buccaneer tried to fire their smokepowder cannons, only to reduce their own ship to flying bits of lit kindling.
Bloody bits of kindling and bits of sailors.
“No luck in your search?” Donnola asked.
“I did not know of the staff, then went off to the north. I have only just begun. To date, I have found nothing, nothing at all.”
“Then what am I to do?” Regis asked. “I did not see Dahlia on the Narwhal, and the staff was stuck into a pile of booty, which it surely would not have been if she had been on the ship.”
“Unless she was on the ship as a prisoner,” Entreri grimly replied.
“I noted no prisoners and saw most of the hold,” Regis assured him. “Had I thought her on the Narwhal, I would have stayed our plans until I had a chance to set her free and get her to the Revenge, of course. You have to believe that. I know that she was important to Drizzt—and to you. I would not—”
“I did not come here to accuse you,” Entreri replied.
“Then why?” Donnola asked. “You knew all of this before.”
“Jarlaxle has found the wreckage and marked it,” Entreri explained. “Beniago led the salvage work, what little could be found. But they didn’t find Kozah’s Needle.”
Regis shuddered as he vividly recalled the explosions rolling along Narwhal’s decks, turning planks into slivers. “The force of those blows could have launched it a half mile away,” he said.
“And thus, Beniago couldn’t find it,” said Entreri.
“Because he didn’t have someone of genasi heritage to deep dive for it,” Donnola remarked, figuring it all out.
“Beniago will lend me Revenge and her crew to go out there. I just need someone to scout the bottom of the sea.”
“It’s been the better part of a year,” Regis reminded. “The bottom’s mud is likely covering anything that’s left of the treasures.”
Entreri reached under his cloak and produced a wand. “Mud won’t hide magic as potent as that of Kozah’s Needle from the detection spells within this.”
“Beniago and Jarlaxle used magical detection in their salvage, of course,” said Regis.
“They weren’t looking for the staff. It was not Jarlaxle’s priority, and I believe he feared finding it for what that might mean to me—particularly since he was desperate for me to travel with him to the north.
“But I am looking for the staff now. I need it, and I need Regis to help me find it.”
The notion didn’t thrill Regis at all. He was of genasi heritage in this body of his rebirth, and he could dive deep, so very deep, and withstand the cold and the pressure. But the darkness of the depths terrified him, and particularly about that wreckage, where he might have to face the results of his sabotage in the form of skeletons and half-eaten corpses.
“You and Dahlia came for me when I was lost in the hell of Sharon’s cocoon,” Entreri coaxed. “I have not forgotten that and never will. Now I ask you to come with me to find Dahlia—or to find her staff, at least.”
“As a friend?” Donnola asked.
“As I said, I’ll pay handsomely if I must.”
“And of course, as I said, you will not, and of course I will go with you out to the wreck.” Regis looked over at his wife, hoping he hadn’t overstepped his bounds by making such a declaration and decision without first privately discussing it with her.
Except she clearly wasn’t thinking along those lines, saying instead, “I’m going, too. And I’ll be standing on the deck of Deudermont’s Revenge waiting for you to come up.” She turned to Entreri. “And if he doesn’t come up, I’ll throw you overboard to go get him, don’t you doubt!”
Entreri seemed quite amused by that.
“She will,” Regis assured him.
The grim man nodded. “I’m sure she’d try.” He looked at Donnola and nodded again, even offering a bit of a head-bob bow. “And perhaps she’d succeed.”
“Believe it,” Donnola quietly muttered.
Entreri’s respect for Donnola wasn’t feigned, Regis knew, for his beloved wife, Donnola Topolino, had lived a life as difficult and violent as Entreri’s, serving in the highest ranks of one of the most feared assassin’s guilds in Aglarond.
Entreri nodded at Donnola and Regis, and with that, the three got ready to depart.
We are here to scout and report, Inzrah Mizzrym’s hands signaled to the drow across the tunnel.
They are only five and we are twenty, that drow of House Hunzrin signaled back.
We know not their intent! Inzrah emphatically flashed.
We know they are not Hunzrin. Who out here who are not Hunzrin are allies of our cause?
When the Hunzrin scout had no response, Inzrah motioned for him to fade back to the main group, waiting in a more complicated area speckled with natural pillars and a side tunnel. A perfect place for their ambush.
“Get an eye out,” Inzrah told Benova Faen Tlabbar, the wizard accompanying this group.
“Already out and watching the approach of the small group.”
“Do you recognize any of them?”
“At least two are of Bregan D’aerthe.”
Inzrah smiled widely at that, until the Hunzrin scout cautioned, “Perhaps fleeing Jarlaxle’s cause. Or perhaps with information that the matrons would greatly desire.”
“They have no detection spells out near to us,” said Mallorae, a priestess of House Mizzrym. “I have cast many wards and alarms. We can fade back before them and keep our spells of clairvoyance and clairaudience upon them until we truly know their intent, and perhaps learn more of why they are marching into the Underdark.”
“No spells of detection from them at all?”
“None,” the priestess answered confidently.
She was wrong.
Just a scouting party, both Drizzt and Jarlaxle heard in their heads, a message sent by the third of their flanking group who stood between them facing a stone wall in a tunnel parallel to the force from Menzoberranzan. Inconsequential.
“You can get us through to them?” Drizzt asked.
Jarlaxle answered before Kimmuriel could. “He can, but you will not like it.”
They claim twenty in their group, but I see only a dozen, Kimmuriel telepathically imparted. Expect that eight more are hiding nearby.
“Warn the advance,” Jarlaxle instructed. “And have the rest throw off their magical non-detection spells and rush to join the fight.”
“We are only two days out of Gauntlgrym,” said Drizzt. “Prisoners would be valuable. Even if they know little, we may need them for exchanges later on.”
“If we can,” Jarlaxle agreed.
Kimmuriel seemed distant from them, his thoughts and gaze focused on what was beyond the stone wall before them. He had heard their exchange, though, Drizzt knew, for he gave a little snort.
Let them close a bit more, the Hunzrin scout signaled to Inzrah, who had his longbow leveled and drawn. You take the one on the left. I’ll take out the right side and we’ll let the Tlabbar wizard drop the three trailing with his lightning.
Ahead in the corridor, the five Bregan D’aerthe drow moved along without any outward signs of concern.
Inzrah smiled, thinking this would be easy and quick, and with five fine trophies to show to his matron and to Zhindia Melarn. She would be the Matron Mother of the city, he believed, and so better to be in her good graces—
That thought ended abruptly, and Inzrah’s expression changed to one of curiosity. He started to lower his bow, but found himself lifting it instead, then turning to the right and letting fly, the arrow snapping across the narrow tunnel to drive through the Hunzrin’s knee, and with enough force to stab into the other knee as well.
“What?” the man squealed in shock and pain.
Inzrah continued to turn, noting the startled expression of Benova Faen Tlabbar, whose hands were up in the throes of his spellcasting.
Benova fought through the shocking interruption and continued—until Inzrah’s next arrow flew into his mouth, stabbing through the back of his head and dropping him to the stone.
Inzrah felt his senses return, as if someone else had been within him, controlling him, just in time for the priestess Mallorae Mizzrym to finish a spell of her own, one that froze the poor, confused archer in place.
Down the hall came the five soldiers of Bregan D’aerthe, in full charge now, firing hand crossbows.
Inzrah felt one bolt strike the back of his neck, felt the sleeping poison seeping through his veins. He saw the Hunzrin he had shot trying to recover, bow in hand and alternating between setting an arrow and grabbing at his stabbed knees. From his angle, Inzrah couldn’t tell if the man meant to shoot at him or the approaching enemies, but it didn’t matter, for one hand crossbow bolt after another stabbed into the downed fellow, whose movements became sluggish almost immediately.
Inzrah felt himself sinking to the ground. The last thing he saw was the approach of the rest of his band, a charge suddenly interrupted when three newcomers to the fight—so he thought—simply walked out of the wall to his right, one wading straight into the battle, a second throwing what looked like a large feather to the floor before him, and the third staring intently at the Mizzrym priestess, who for some reason seemed not to be doing anything at all.
And then there was a large bird, a giant, flightless creature, scattering Inzrah’s soldiers, launching them about, pecking at them with its giant beak.
“How strange,” Inzrah said before the sleeping poison took him away from the battle.
Icingdeath deflected the sword before it ever got near to striking Drizzt. Drizzt rolled the scimitar cleverly to bring that sword down, then out, his other arm coming up fast to keep the drow’s second sword at bay.
Coming right out of the wall, he and his two companions had caught their opponents by surprise. Drizzt had already taken down the nearest enemy when he came through with a slash to the back of the legs and a hilt punch to the face as the man fell; this one, too, was barely ready to engage him.
He had her dead, then and there. A subtle twist of his right wrist would angle Icingdeath perfectly to take out her throat.
He heard the moans of pain from the man behind him.
He dropped Icingdeath to the ground and instead struck the woman under the chin with his open palm, a stunning blow that sent her staggering backward.
A rush and forward flip with a double kick straight out as he came around caught her in the chest and launched her into the next enemies in line.
Drizzt barely touched the ground before he was back to his feet and he waded into the group, Twinkle fending defensively, his free hand and his feet launching devastating counterstrikes.
At one point, facing a woman wielding sword and dagger, Drizzt tossed his weapon straight up into the air, then caught it, turned, and launched a javelin that had been coming his way, sending it right back to stab into the belly of the thrower.
He moved as if to catch Twinkle, but the woman saw it and cut her sword across to intercept.
Except, Drizzt’s motion was but a feint, and her reaction gave him the opening to wade in closer and hit her inside the knee with a sweeping kick that sent her stumbling to the ground.
From the right came the stab from another sword, but Drizzt got under it and behind it, rotating his shoulders as he thrust his right hand against the newest attacker’s sword arm, pushing it across his body. In the same movement, Drizzt shifted another step to the man’s side, left arm cocked and back, hips turning, shoulders turning, and fist driving up into the bottom of the man’s ribs with enough force to lift the fellow from the ground.
Again Drizzt struck, shoulders reversing, left hand coming back, right hand going across the man’s chest to prevent an elbow or a backhand and to simply occupy his opponent, who was trying to square up.
Which meant that he was turning perfectly for Drizzt’s next left hook, an open-palmed strike that hit the man square in the face, snapped his head back violently, and left him falling straight backward to the ground.
The overmatched warrior didn’t even groan when he crashed down, his senses already long gone from this place.
Drizzt’s attention was immediately back to the woman, who was trying to stand up on her broken leg.
“Do not,” he said, but she kept moving.
He hit her with a downward blow, his hand snapping her head, likely breaking her jaw, and planting her motionless on the ground.
Up came Drizzt, surveying the scene. The battle was on in full, or at least, what was left of it. In the sheer shock of the three simply appearing through the stone wall, all the formations and plans of the would-be ambushers had been turned against them with brutal and effective suddenness.
Several were down and writhing, others down and dead or dying, and still others with weapons dropped and hands held up, begging for mercy.
One fight that caught Drizzt by surprise, though, was off to the side, where a drow not of Bregan D’aerthe was battling one of the Menzoberranzan ambushers in a furious and reckless manner, leaping and swinging wildly, taking severe hits in exchange for returning a blow. She had two fighters against her and got hit every eyeblink, it seemed.
Blood poured from her side and her neck. The side of her head was matted with it. Drizzt couldn’t understand why or how she was still standing, let alone fighting, or why in the Nine Hells she was battling her own allies.
But then he did understand, and he looked to Kimmuriel, who was staring at the woman, his golem now, and controlling her movements.
Drizzt didn’t know whether to charge at Kimmuriel or at the battlers, but the decision was made for him when a sword went right through the woman’s throat, driving out the back, severing her spinal cord.
Even Kimmuriel’s psionic control couldn’t battle through that.
The two drow who had been fighting her, both wounded in several places, suddenly found themselves facing a dozen Bregan D’aerthe fighters, all with bows leveled and ready.
They dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.
“So everything you told me at the monastery was a lie,” Drizzt said to Kimmuriel while Jarlaxle was ordering his forces about the vanquished enemies.
“No,” Kimmuriel replied, and seemed genuinely hurt by the remark.
“I thought you wanted a world of mercy and community.”
“I do, and I’ll help make it. But be not a fool, Drizzt Do’Urden. Our enemies are vicious and I am no pacifist. These people had a choice and so they made one. And their choices will include torturing their enemies, turning their enemies into driders, feeding the souls of you and me and all of us to the damned Spider Queen. Mercy? When possible, I would agree. When battle is on, win it first and worry about mercy after.” He pointed at the woman he had been controlling, now dead on the floor, drowned in her own blood. “She was an enemy. Better that she is dead than the loss of one of our allies.”
Drizzt wanted to respond, but he knew better. Kimmuriel’s tactic had horrified him, but if he had been the one battling the two drow in that last fight, and particularly before he had trained with Grandmaster Kane and learned so many less lethal techniques, it was very likely that both of them would now be dead.
And I am no pacifist, either.
“Eight dead, twelve captured, and with eight of those badly hurt,” Dab’nay said, coming over to Drizzt and Kimmuriel.
Drizzt looked past her to see Jarlaxle’s approach.
“Burn the dead,” Kimmuriel said. “Burn them to nothingness.”
“And execute the twelve quickly and mercifully?” Dab’nay asked.
“No,” Drizzt said emphatically before Kimmuriel could respond.
Kimmuriel stared at him.
“No?” Jarlaxle asked, joining the group.
“The tunnels behind us are clear, while those ahead grow more dangerous,” Drizzt explained. “Heal our wounded with your spells, Dab’nay, then heal theirs as much as you can this day, so that they can make the journey quickly back to Mithral Hall.”
“It is a march of two days,” Kimmuriel reminded.
“Send a fast guard with them and make it there and back here in three days. They’ll know that the tunnels before them are secure. King Bruenor will see to the prisoners.”
“You think to turn these prisoners to our cause?” asked Jarlaxle.
“These little acts of mercy,” Drizzt said, then looked at Kimmuriel and emphatically clarified, “when and where we can offer such, will cost us little and possibly bring great rewards as the war continues. Let the priests and wizards of the houses of our prisoners scry for them and learn that we are not acting cruelly.”
“They’ll think it weakness,” Kimmuriel warned.
“Some will, and perhaps some will not,” said Drizzt. “And then that will be their weakness. But more importantly, we know the truth of it. We’ll fight this war and win this war, but we must do so without losing our own souls, else what’s the point?”
Jarlaxle appeared impressed and looked to Kimmuriel, who didn’t argue.
“Dab’nay, form a guard and go with them,” Jarlaxle ordered. “Take the prisoners to King Bruenor with all speed.”
Dab’nay agreed and seemed pleased with the decision. “And burn the dead?” she asked, making sure the order still stood.
“Yes,” Jarlaxle said, but at the same time, Drizzt said, “No.”
“If we leave anything of them, Lolth will bring them back, and likely as undead drider beasts,” Kimmuriel argued.
“Take them to Mithral Hall as well,” Drizzt said. “Treat the bodies with respect in the knowledge that any of us could have been among their ranks at one time in our lives, that all of us here going to battle the Spider Queen once served her with our actions.”
“All but one,” Jarlaxle noted, staring at Drizzt.
“A matter of good fortune as much as anything else,” Drizzt replied.
“Have the prisoners carry the dead?” Dab’nay asked skeptically. “They’ll have enough in holding up the wounded as we move along. You’ll turn your three days into a tenday.”
Drizzt looked to Jarlaxle for an answer, any answer.
Jarlaxle held up a finger, as if an idea had just come to him. He pulled off his great hat, reached inside it, and produced the simple black cloth of his portable hole.
“Use this,” he told Dab’nay and he spun the cloth out to form a large pit on the floor of the corridor. “Drop the dead in and pick it up by the edges to become an unremarkable piece of cloth once more. Open it again in the chamber of the primordial in Gauntlgrym, and there give the dead to Maegera in its chasm of fire, and do so with proper ceremony and respect.”
He looked to Drizzt, who nodded his agreement.
“I’ll say a prayer for them,” Dab’nay promised, and added with a wink, “but not a prayer to Lolth.”
She started away and Jarlaxle called after her, “Strip the bodies of all magic before you put them in. All magic and anything of value. Give all but the very best of it to King Bruenor as recompense for his help with the prisoners.”
“And the very best?” Dab’nay asked, but all she got in reply, and quite clearly all that she expected for a reply, was Jarlaxle’s laugh.
“Our enemies will show us no such mercy, nor such respect for our bodies if we fall,” Kimmuriel remarked, and when Drizzt and Jarlaxle turned to him, he added, “And that is why we must fight this war, and why we must win.”
Drizzt nodded.
“But not during the fights, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Kimmuriel then scolded. “Go and fetch your weapons. We battle to win, however we may, and we can show mercy once we have achieved victory and not before. We cannot give our enemies the advantage of ruthlessness when battle is joined.”
Drizzt thought to argue, to remind the psionicist that he had waded through a line of enemies and taken all who had come near to him out of the fight—and had shown mercy to them in the process. But he couldn’t press that point, because he knew that he would probably kill many drow before this war was over.