Author's Note: Gah, a sign that I am terminally bored with real life is when I retreat into my virtual one and write far, far too fast for my own (or the story's) good.  The plot is due to get even more violent in this part –since I'm currently in a PMS-induced bad mood.  Also, at this point of time the story continues to diverge from Salvatore's books.  Don't scream at me – I just really didn't want to add all the bother of writing Catti-Brie, so Drizzt did not leave something behind as he did in Starless Night.

Part 3

L'Shebali

            "Do'Urden?" Entreri gasped.  "As in Drizzt Do'Urden?"

            "I see you've heard of…" Hierathe paused when the weapon on Entreri's left arm, hidden in the piwafwi, began to hum a discordant, angry tune.  Entreri drew out his arm, and watched the gold spiral pulse into crimson.

            "What's happening?"

            Hierathe pursed her lips.  "Either L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin hates Drizzt for a reason, or Drizzt is the Rogue.  Which would make some kind of twisted sense, admittedly, though I have no idea why it'd react in such a way, when you haven't even named anyone.  Perhaps L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin compensates for ah… vaunted intelligence."

            "So, do I Name Drizzt as the Rogue?" Entreri did not notice the veiled jibe at a stereotypical warrior's technical level of intellect, but Hierathe let it slide.

            "Well, I think you should attempt to make sure first.  Any other suspects?"

            "A few, all Bregan D'aerthe."  Entreri cast his gaze up into the darkness of the Menzoberranzan cavern, wishing for the millionth time that he was looking up into the endless sky.  Either Calimport's blazing sun or the frigid desert night, it didn't matter – he was homesick, and angry at himself for being homesick, and on top of that, angry at himself for losing control enough to be angry.  "My other acquaintances are on the Surface World, and are unlikely to leave it."

            "So… are you going to make a decision, or are we going to stand here? There's nothing interesting on the ceiling, Entreri.  Except a few bats.  And the occasional lizard.  But if you find those interesting… "

            The assassin listened to Hierathe insult him effortlessly for a few minutes without breaking rhythm, almost as though she were reciting some grotesque poetry, and kept quiet.  Oppressive silence was usually a good way of making others shut up, but it did not seem to work on Hierathe – the only thing that did make her stop was when they finally reached House Do'Urden, and the weapon reacted even more violently.

            Metal threads shot out from the wrist of the gauntlet towards the metal ruins, cutting neatly through whatever they encountered.  They twisted and writhed, occasionally pausing and turning the tips in the air, as if desperately searching for something.  The weapon's hum turned into a disappointed snarl, then the threads withdrew back to the gauntlet.  The gold hue again gave to red, in the spiral – a dark blackish red that resembled drying blood.

            Hierathe watched, somewhat impressed – her eyes were wider, and her tone was not unlike that of a pupil beseeching guidance.  "What now?"

            Entreri considered his options.  "I am going to speak with my other… suspects.  Since you would not be allowed into Bregan D'aerthe, either I take my leave of you now, or when I finish I meet with you in Qaynstone."

            "You'd better remember to meet me," Hierathe put her hands on her shapely hips and looked so much like an indignant, resigned mother facing down a recalcitrant son that Entreri had to stifle an urge to laugh.  "The Gods know what other kinds of trouble you can get into with that thing on your arm.  Don't… ah what the hell; you'd probably get into trouble anyway.  See you in two… no, make that three Narbondel hues."

            "And if I'm late?" Entreri raised an eyebrow.

            "Off to bed without your supper," Hierathe winked as Entreri flashed a quick smile at her quip.  "Seriously though – I'd report you to the Mistress just for the amusement value.  The fireworks should be quite fun to watch from there – especially if you happened to be dead and someone else attempts to put on the weapon.  Try not to do that – die, I mean - you have been rather amusing."

            "Pleased to be of entertainment," Entreri said sardonically.  Both of them exchanged mockingly courtly bows, then headed off on their own ways, oddly unsatisfied with their meeting, but out of pride, unwilling to go back and follow the other.  Besides, unknown to the other, each had their own hidden agenda.

**

            "Malla Yathallar?"

            Rys'Zaer sighed and stretched on her bed, coverlets and blankets bunching underneath her – she hated it when her rest was interrupted, and had to force her voice to stay calm and not make her sound irritable.  Sometimes it was annoying having to keep up a certain image with different people.  "What is the matter, Hierathe?"

            Movement at the foot of the bed, the slight change of the patterns of body heat on Artifice betraying the fact that the Crafting had just been awoken by her voice.  She caught the sight of two almonds of red – his eyes - before he quickly averted his gaze, his manner confused, bewildered, nervous and tense.  Rys'Zaer permitted herself a congratulatory smile at her Crafting's apparent perfection before turning her attention back to the communications device on the bedside table.  Cool, hard scales rubbed over her stomach, and a blunt snout nudged her hand – the whip was also awake, though by the tone of the hisses, rather petulant about it.  She could identify with that.

            "A while more," she murmured to it.  One of the heads rose from the bed, hood flaring up as it swayed half-heartedly from side to side, tongue flickering out to taste the air, then sank down again in pointed weariness.  Rys'Zaer winked at it – sometimes she suspected the whip had some kind of sentience – a subtle one, but one that existed all the same.

            "Entreri – the rivvil – is close to finding the Rogue, malla Yathallar.  L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin reacted in a destructive manner at the Do'Urden and Teken'duis ruins – and it also displays some response whenever he speaks the Rogue's name."

            "So you know who the Rogue is, Hierathe?"

            "I believe I do, malla Yathallar." Hierathe sounded confident.

            "Good.  The Game is in flux – the dice and the bowl have revealed a sub-character who may or may not be a Revealer.  Do what you must, and do not disappoint me."

            "I understand, malla Yathallar." The communications device lost the underlying buzz it had whenever it was being used, and Rys'Zaer knew that the links had been severed.  Yawning luxuriously, she stretched again, more slowly.  Perhaps it was time to get up and speak with her sisters… or perhaps not.

            "Artifice."

            "Yes, Mistress?"

            Rys'Zaer idly twisted her fingers into symbols, and a soft light sprang up between them.  Infravision was all very well, but for details, true vision was better.  She smiled, albeit somewhat cruelly, when Artifice flinched and recoiled from the unexpected illumination, shielding his eyes quickly and curving his wings open into two graceful arcs.  Using the distraction to move, she closed the distance between them and raked her nails down his chest eliciting a moan of mingled pain and pleasure, clinically inspecting the new wounds - pretty beads of red that welled up from the furrows – and the slightly older wounds that had scabbed over quickly due to the modifications she had made three decades ago to Artifice's healing system.  No matter, she would heal them fully in time, though she was as yet undecided on whether or not to leave the scars. 

            It was almost as though she was placing finishing touches on a manifestation of artistic expression.  Or perhaps it was simply pure cruelty…

            On the bed behind her, the whip watched its mistress play with her new toy for a while, amber eyes flat and suspicious, but when it decided that the toy was most probably harmless; it fell into a contented form of slumber.

**

            Artemis Entreri found his way into the corridor towards what passed for the Bregan D'aerthe reference library and database, feeling vaguely surprised that he'd only gotten lost once and with little consequence – he'd nearly wandered straight into the corridor that led to Jarlaxle's office.  Though admittedly the mercenary leader was one of his suspects, he somehow did not feel like meeting him yet.  Instinct, perhaps?  It was likely that he had already spent far too long surrounded by the physical evidence of the mercenary's power – such that he automatically expected that the mercenary had a counter-plan, some form of defense, against everything that the world could throw at him – even L'Sarol.  Absurd as that may sound, Entreri did not want to take the chance that Jarlaxle may somehow wrest the weapon from him.

He was thankful that the gauntlet was more or less inconspicuous underneath his cloak, except for the occasional alien mutter – there was no other description for the sound – which it made. 

            Uneasily, Entreri came to the realization that the weapon was getting quite impatient.  Occasionally it warmed against his hip, then cooled to the temperature of ice, before warming back to a normal temperature.  It seemed to resent his every step taken in the building, as if it believed he was delaying in his pursuit of the Rogue, and Entreri resented the fact that the weapon seemed to think he should be following its every whim instead of approaching this in a logical manner. 

            Eventually he grew tired of the sounds and the temperature changes, and looked around him – no dark elves – and moved the gauntlet out from his cloak.  It took longer than usual to respond to his wish, and the spiral swirled continuously into dizzying color changes, orange to amber yellow to sea turquoise to dark red to olive green, a thousand colors in between.  Agitation.  Anger.  Frustration.  Confusion.

            "We do it this way first to make sure," Entreri told it firmly, feeling dimly embarrassed of the fact that he was talking to an object.  Tentatively, he stroked the back of his – its – palm, over the spiral, and the colors gradually calmed back to gold and the discordant mutter into an oddly affectionate hum.

            "Now just be quiet… what now?" Entreri sighed, frustrated, as the gold flared back to red.  The metal threads hissed out of it, though they twined in the air, not attacking, darting the ends around like so many silver snakes. 

            "Interesting." Jarlaxle stepped into the pale circle of light that the weapon had projected earlier when Entreri had decided that they were relatively out of sight of the busier corridors and could afford not to rely on infravision.  Entreri sucked in a startled breath, half-expecting Jarlaxle to pull out some sort of artifact and take the gauntlet from him.  However, Jarlaxle did nothing other than pause and look him slowly up and down, gaze lingering naturally on the outlandish gauntlet.

            The mercenary leader seemed as calm and collected as ever, though he was idly rolling a throwing dagger in his right hand.  Entreri knew far too well how a semblance of play in the dark elf could quickly and without warning turn into an attack, and he warily reached for the hilt of his sword with his right hand.  As if sensing his uneasiness, the gauntlet started to hum and throb, almost snarling, the sharp sounds, and the threads all stiffened, ready to attack.

            "You'd not need to use L'Sarol on me, Entreri," Jarlaxle drawled, his Surface Common speech as annoyingly perfect as ever, and Entreri blinked at the pronunciation of the gauntlet's name, but was hardly surprised.  Sometimes he suspected Jarlaxle of having employed the very stones and metal of the walls and streets as his spies.  "Though it is quite amusing how you do happen to have all sorts of strange devices fall into your hands at appropriate intervals."

            "And how do I know you are not the Rogue?" Entreri raised an eyebrow, not letting down his guard for an instant.

            "Simply this – by the way I understand it, your part of L'Sarol would have attacked me already." Jarlaxle said blandly.  "Bregan D'aerthe has a few records of it – beginning from its creation from the joint efforts of three House Qaer'rys High Priestesses, one of whom sent an intermediary to fetch you to wield one of the three parts of L'Sarol… you did not know of that, did you?  Pity."

            "That was why I was intending to enter the Library," Entreri pointed out irritably.

            "You'd find little of true use there… let alone who the Rogue and the Mage are."  Jarlaxle smirked.

            "And you would know?"

            "Information is power, khalus abbil, and I happen to have a lot of it." Jarlaxle said without the least trace of modesty, but with a lot of self-mockery.  "I propose a deal.  I can tell you who the Rogue is, and the Mage as well… but you will have to swear on L'Sarol that you will never use the weapon for ill against Bregan D'aerthe and all that is related to or associated with it without my consent."

            "You are afraid of this weapon." Entreri said bluntly, vaguely surprised at this development.

            "Afraid is a strong word, assassin," Jarlaxle smiled with his usual insolent charm.  "'Wary' would be a better one, though I know it is useless to play the intricacies of word games with you.  Why not leave it as… I have seen what L'Sarol can do, and have heard of its capability when it is whole.  I would prefer it if you simply left the Underdark altogether, but who is to say if Bregan D'aerthe were some day to venture to the Surface?"

            "'Who is to say' indeed," Entreri echoed mockingly.  "You, I would think.  And how would I know that these records of the Rogue and the Mage are not in the Library behind you?"

            Jarlaxle stepped aside archly and made an elaborate bow, tipping his hat and sweeping his free hand towards the direction of the Library.  "Feel free to enter and take a look around.  I tell you that you will find nothing – if you do not believe me, then go.  You may even try to seek me out later, after you decipher the code in which we encrypt all our archived materials, if you can find me."

            Entreri rather wryly realized that his plan had a large flaw in it – he could barely read the dark elven language, let alone try and decipher codes in it.  Or what if the archives weren't even written in dark elven at all, but in true-code – invented symbols? 

            "Well, khalus abbil?"

            Entreri shrugged, and glanced at L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin once.  Unwillingly, the threads receded back into the gauntlet.  When he looked back at the mercenary leader, Jarlaxle had already carefully wiped all trace of surprise that the human assassin had gained such a degree of control over the gauntlet in such a sort time.  "There seems to be no alternative."

            "Well, it has been said that the path to wisdom is comprehension of one's situation… now, while this would seem trite – follow me."

**

            Hierathe padded into the soothing atmosphere of her abode and luxuriated on one of the sofas for an instant, closing her eyes and listening to the peaceful sound of moving water.  She had set the transfer-devices such that on the instant of her death, the place would move itself to a designated spot on the Surface World, which had already been prepared for this.  She had been planning all this for decades ever since she got involved in the Game, and felt no regrets.  She did not feel it was likely that she would survive the next installment of the Game, and the thought of that did not particularly disturb her, though when she was walking back to her home she felt an extraordinary resentment at every single individual still living out their scheduled lives, every single individual who spent each day wasting the precious minutes.

            Every single one.

            No use for moody monologues and regrets – Hierathe carefully prepared herself for what may come, then spent some time slowly feeding the koi, watching them dance through the water with half-hooded eyes.

**

            "Your new Crafting, Drada Dalninil?" Rys'Itae, being the Eldest, spoke first, after they had exchanged the necessary greetings and platitudes to Lloth.  They sat at a round table at Rys'Itae's opulent chambers, a table which had one adamantite scrying bowl set into it before each seat, and a large, main scrying bowl set in the centre.  Each seat was equidistant to each other, and each of the three High Priestesses took their places with accustomed familiarity.  They had been playing such Games at this table for centuries and rather enjoyed it.

            All three sisters possessed similarly slender builds, though Rys'Itae had narrow eyes and a thin, hard mouth, and Rys'Jaer had features that were slightly wider and rounder than her sisters.  According to rank, Rys'Itae wore the most ornate robes, and her snake-whip had four heads, all evil-looking vipers.  Rys'Jaer's had three heads, like Rys'Zaer's, but had rattlesnakes in the place of cobras.

            As was normal, each Qaer'rys High Priestess was accompanied by a constant companion – usually a guardian-Crafting or a favored one.  Rys'Itae and Rys'Jaer both studied Artifice closely, their attitudes a mixture of clinical and physical appreciation.  Artifice was careful to keep his eyes downcast and his posture submissive, wings folded tightly against his back.  He was uncomfortable in his new clothes, though he had been built with the strength to wear them – drow black plate-mail, every piece of metal exquisitely carved and polished magically until their surfaces were dark mirrors which reflected back precise images.  He did not like the way the shoulder-plates restricted his movement, or the heavy cloak that dragged on the ground behind him, or the gauntlets which turned his slender hands into clumsy claws, or the greaves that turned his fluid walk into a stiff-legged, jangling march. 

            He also did not like the black leather collar studded with blood-red rubies, or the long steel chain that hung down from it to behind his Mistress' chair – but since this outlandish costume pleased his Mistress, he supposed that he was glad that she had given it to him to wear.

            She spoke, and again, his world centered on her.  "Yes, Ust Dalninil.  Except for a few minor infringements, he has been the best of my efforts.  You were correct when you recommended the life-stealing artifacts for Awakenings those centuries ago."  Artifice felt a surge of admiration – through some implanted information, he knew that in reality, Rys'Itae had never done such a thing, but in this way, Rys'Zaer effectively cut off any theological objection Rys'Itae or Rys'Jaer might have about his Awakening.  He was correct in this surmise – Rys'Itae frowned briefly but eventually smiled, and the hulking, centaurish Crafting behind her even seemed to relax his grip on his large greataxe.

            "Ah… and you have such an artifact, Drada Dalninil?" Rys'Jaer asked curiously.  Her Crafting looked like a fragile Surface bird, iridescent blue and about the size of a hawk, with a spear-like beak and bright, beady eyes.  However, it was not wise to underestimate any of Rys'Jaer's seemingly frail Craftings – there were rumors of some sort of hidden, imbued power in them.

            "Why, yes, Llarnbuss Dalninil.  The dagger from the rivvil assassin.  I meant it to be a part of the… stakes of the Game."

            "A most worthy addition," Rys'Itae said decisively.  "Shall we start the new round?"

            "By your leave, Ust Dalninil," Rys'Zaer inclined her head.  "The sub-character has revealed the others…"

            "As permitted by my last throw," Rys'Itae smiled, with a hint of self-congratulation.  It was somewhat justified in this case – a brilliantly lucky roll which had allowed Further Awareness.  "Yes, the next Round will soon start."

            "It hinges on Player Sargtlin," Rys'Jaer observed.  "Should he decide to go alone, or with his guide? Should he listen, or disbelieve? Oh, forgive my speculation.  Let us begin."

            "Firstly… some refreshments are in order," Rys'Itae said graciously, signaling to her servants.

**

            Entreri felt dizzy as he left the Clawrift base, nearly stumbling as he walked towards the city.  Was the mercenary speaking the truth about the identities of the other Players, or was it all a lie? The world seemed to have turned itself around – friend seemed to turn foe, and with that left him alone, isolated, solitary.  It was oddly painful now, even though he had thought himself accustomed to his isolation.

            He knew, actually, that Jarlaxle had been speaking the truth.  L'Sarol d'l'Sargtlin seemed to writhe in impatience once Jarlaxle had spoken the two names – oh, that he had not! Entreri cursed himself for being blind to all prior evidence – and also being far, far too trusting.  He had dropped his guard then – he told himself he would not do it again. 

            Still, the pain of the betrayal scraped at his sanity even though the act itself was not new to him, and Entreri stopped to take deep, meditative breaths.  First he would deal with the Rogue… then the Mage.

            He speculated whether changing out of the drow armor back to leather had been a good idea – but he was used to his old armor.  The drow armor, though well made and would turn blades, was far too heavy for his liking.  Without the use of his dagger and his dagger arm, the armor would have been a further disadvantage.

**

            Drizzt climbed carefully down the slippery natural stairs that the river roaring below had once cut from this level of rock, mining and clawing at its bed until it dug itself twenty feet lower into the ground, where it continued to churn and slash with white liquid blades against the jagged rock and sheer walls. 

            He was thankful that he had brought Guenhwyvar along.  Though he felt some pangs at taking his friend instead of leaving the figurine to Catti-Brie as he had originally intended, it seemed unrealistic to try and tackle the vast network of the Underdark without one naturally gifted in stealth.  Drizzt was sure he'd have gotten lost by now, or have had to use Twinkle for a normal-vision light source, if Guen had not been here.  As it were, infravision still hurt his eyes, especially here, where the river below cast a weirdly beautiful greenish light which was unfortunately of the precise degree of brightness to cause his eyes to toe the line between normal vision and infravision. 

            Annoying, but he knew that predators – those which used infravision, anyway – disliked using this river as a hunting ground.  Here, he only had to worry about those that did not need to use their eyes at all.

            Guenhwyvar paused a few 'steps' below him, one paw gracefully raised, sniffing the air suspiciously.

            "What is it?" Drizzt spoke softly, using the dark elven language.  Hopefully, if whatever his friend sensed was sentient, they might be frightened away.  He reached the 'step' Guenhwyvar was on – and looked around, frowning.  "I see nothing."  He drew Twinkle, and gasped as the scimitar abruptly flared with blue light, a signal that enemies were near.

            The enemy revealed – floating with ease several feet above them – was of such an absurd and extraordinary appearance that for a long moment Drizzt could do nothing but gape.  A huge fish – a carp – not counting the tail, longer than he was.  Black scales that gleamed and reflected blue highlights from Twinkle, ethereal, translucent fins and a tail that fanned the air languidly, as if it were in water, and for a moment, Drizzt wondered wildly if he were, in fact, underwater.

            The fish seemed to realize that it had been seen – and suddenly seemed to sprout several sharp, uneven spikes at various intervals along its sinuous length.  It opened a large mouth, revealing obscenely sharp teeth, and then curved its body and plunged down towards them with horrifying speed.

            Even as Drizzt readied his weapons, Guenhwyvar let out a snarl of fury and fear – something that Drizzt had never heard his companion utter before – and bounded up the steps, charging towards the monster.  Drizzt froze on the spot for a moment, then drew Icingdeath and leaped up a 'step' to aid his friend – and promptly caught a booted heel in the stomach that knocked him down two 'steps', precariously near the edge.

            He rolled gracefully and quickly to his feet, teeth bared, and received his second shock of the day – crouched a 'step' before him was Artemis Entreri, wielding a sword with his right hand, his left arm sheathed in a gauntlet of alien design that gave out a bright light, enough to illuminate much of the underground gorge they stood in, from which many metallic threads hissed out like evil worm-like snakes.

            "Surprise," the assassin whispered softly.

**

            "An interesting manifestation," Rys'Zaer offered as, in the scrying bowl before her, she watched the huge carp effortlessly avoid the lunges of the panther with rapid flicks of the outwardly fragile-looking fins.  The cat, however, was equally agile, and its only wound so far was a gash along its flank from one of the long spikes.

            "No doubt inspired from your Player," Rys'Itae agreed graciously.  "I must admit – with one hand, and with my Player unable to use his gauntlet directly against Shebali, the odds are somewhat evened."

            "For the moment," Rys'Jaer agreed, watching her Player intently as he wielded two scimitars with fluid expertise.  "Impressive, this one.  A pity that he is who he is."

            "No one is perfect," Rys'Zaer agreed, "Though it would indeed be a pity to ruin that pretty face." Behind her, Artifice tensed slightly, bewildered at the rush of jealousy that filled his mind as he saw his Mistress openly admire the male dark elf in the scrying-bowl.  Admittedly, the gaze was somewhat scientific, as if she were just noting down the advantageous features that the dark elf possessed for use in later Craftings, or some related activity.

            The dark elf scored a hit with his blue scimitar high on the human's chest – a slash that cut through the human's leather armor and gashed the flesh beneath.  The human seemed to grit his teeth against the pain, swiping with his sword, but though close enough, the dark elf turned, and the sword glanced off mithril armor instead of into one of the openings.

            "Not particularly fair," Rys'Jaer noted, her voice entirely neutral, though Artifice believed that she secretly rejoiced.  Why would she not? Her choice had no handicap, two weapons, and superior armor as well as speed and reflexes – what as more, the gauntlet was not permitted to use its healing powers in the midst of a Player battle.  The battle seemed rather one-sided – the human quickly turning defensive, though there was the occasional flurry of attacks which the drow seemed adept at turning. 

**

            Artemis Entreri felt like laughing at the absurdity of his situation.  He possessed one of the greatest magical artifacts he had ever known – yet here it crippled him, allowing him only the use of one arm to parry and attack, something that was quickly tiring him.  The gauntlet continuously shrieked and writhed, a further distraction, as it vented its frustration at its inability, as decreed by some stupid rules of this stupid Game, to tear Drizzt to little pieces. 

            What was more, though Entreri knew exactly what L'Sarol d'l'Shebali had taken the form of, he had no idea how he was going to get it off Drizzt's person unless he managed to kill his opponent or knock him unconscious.  He rather doubted Drizzt would allow him to search him for the panther figurine, much less give it willingly to him.

            At least the carp seemed to be winning.  He was rather proud of the idea, actually – the outrageous appearance of the monster was in itself a distraction to the panther – the cat seemed disorientated, though it was attacking bravely.  Stupid, stupid creature.

            The panther screamed when a spike pierced through one of its front paws.  Drizzt flinched violently, and turned instinctively to check on his friend.  Entreri took the opportunity to lunge and stab, though the elf recovered his attention enough such that Entreri only scored a laceration on the thigh.  Missed the muscle, damn the gods.

            "You will pay for this," the elf promised, attacking with renewed fervor.  At least the gauntlet seemed to understand what Entreri needed of it, and moved of its own volition to counter the blows in its general direction.  Still, Entreri's sword-arm was numbing quickly, and what was worse; a shallow cut had caused his fingers to be slippery with blood.

            He ducked a slash by dropping onto his back, grimacing at the impact, and simultaneously kicked low and viciously with one leg.  Though weighting the boot-soles with adamantite had disadvantages… there were obvious advantages as well.  Drizzt let out a cross between a yelp and a hiss of pain as Entreri pulled the oldest and nastiest moves in street-fighting history (at least for males), and staggered, slipping accidentally and tumbling onto the lower step. 

            Entreri rolled to his feet with a wicked smile, and lightly leaped down, then lunged at his opponent before Drizzt could recover.  Drizzt growled, and admirably managed to block the descending sword, even though he was in obvious pain.  "Damn… you…" he ground out.

            The assassin smiled, and kicked at the elf's face.  Drizzt hurriedly dodged, though barely, and got a boot in the chest for his effort.  Rolling away instinctively, he gasped as the back of his foot ground halfway into nothingness – he was at the edge.  Suddenly, his senses seemed filled with the roaring river beneath him.

            Entreri, oddly enough, did not press his advantage – Drizzt was sure that if the assassin had followed up with his attack and simply pushed, all his mithril armor and agility would not save him from the jagged rocks and the twenty-foot drop below.  Suspiciously, he looked at his adversary. 

            Curiously enough, the assassin wasn't paying attention to him.  Drizzt took a look – just in time to see the carp move in for the kill.  His despairing wail seemed to be swallowed up in the sudden torpor of time, a hideous entropy that forced him to watch the death of his best friend in all its terrifying, destructive detail.  The panther's neck snapped with an audible sound as the carp got a grip and twisted in the air, like some monstrous dancer, then, with another flicking movement, tossed the carcass with ease into the air, describing a symmetrical arc and landing two 'steps' before him.  Drizzt watched, horrified, as the panther's eyes turned glassy, dying, dead…

            Uncaring of Entreri, he scrambled up the steps, frantically stroking and patting the fur of the body, aware that he was weeping as he whispered incoherently, "No… not possible… why did you not retreat… why could you, how could you die…?" He drew out the panther figurine, touching it helplessly to the inert carcass, in the hope for some miracle, any miracle, but nothing happened, nothing.  "Guenhwyvar… no! Why, by Mielikki?"

            "Only in this manner could it die," The assassin's hateful, sardonic voice cut cruelly into his grief.  "The carp, like Guenhwyvar, are both manifestations of L'Sarol, and can kill each other.  However… "

            "Be quiet!" Drizzt snarled, dropping the figurine and lunging towards the voice, not understanding what the assassin had said, not wanting to understand, only understanding that his friend had died because of the assassin.  Startled by the sudden attack, Entreri only barely managed to block the frenzied slashes and thrusts, and was driven back onto a lower step, scarcely keeping his balance.  The human assassin watched helplessly as, at the back, the carp disappeared into the shadows, its function fulfilled, unable to help its master further. 

Drizzt seemed to positively vibrate with fury, arms actually trembling for a moment before stilling, and Entreri believed, L'Sarol or not, his death was reflected in those lavender eyes.  The revelation brought with it an inexplicable capitulation to his fate – even the gauntlet's snarls faded into a barely audible murmur.

            Then Drizzt jerked forward, not unlike some broken marionette, and a blade of orange flame seemed to cut out from behind him, through the centre of his chest, like some grotesque flower with petals of spurting red – apparently having burned impossibly through the mithril armor.  He staggered a step away, blood bubbling out from the corners of his mouth.  "What… "

            Entreri blinked as Drizzt's movement revealed a smirking Hierathe, holding the panther figurine in her left hand, her right hand ungloved to reveal five thin gold rings, one on each finger.  From the rings seemed to spring the orange flame, which encircled her fist in fitful tongues and formed the two foot long, burning blade which had pierced Drizzt from behind.

            And though he had expected this, having been warned from Jarlaxle, his heart still sank, twisting painfully inside him like a knife, as if he were the one stabbed from behind instead of his opponent.  Betrayed.

            Hierathe d'Aerth was the Mage.

--

Translations and References:

Khalus abbil: Trust(ed) friend.  The word 'trust' here is meant especially for trust that is foolish or misplaced.  It appears in a certain strange form in one of Salvatore's books, but I don't particularly care.  Makes for an amusing irony, in any case.

Drada Dalninil: Second sister.

Ust Dalninil: First sister.

Llarnbuss Dalninil: Third sister.