The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This is the official grand finale of "The Lesser Evil: Hooligan's Holiday," though two more chapters will follow to officially close the story.

Chapter 28: Blood for Blood

Asorath gave a chuckle, looking down at Entreri's prone form and the sight of the shivering halfling taking it all in with mace in hand.

Regis looked up and saw Asorath and his father exchange glances, likely silently communicating their plans.

The tiefling shook a lock of black hair over his shoulder, giving Regis a cruel smile as he walked past his father and took the lead down the corridor. Wenthias nodded at him, took a more comfortable grip on his mace, and followed his son.

Entreri allowed himself to stumble and fall to his side, though it was hardly a motion of defeat or submission, though Regis only saw a bloodied and broken man collapse.

His body landed on his arm and his good leg as he tightened his muscles enough to spring the first second the little bastard stepped near him; one slice through the gut, one pause, one burning husk of a halfling who had been a thorn in his side for too long.

Regis gave off a few sighs, staring down at the prone form of this horrible man who had destroyed his body and destroyed his life in too many ways. Now he was covered in his own blood, giving off a few heaving breaths in clear pain.

He kept his mace held high, putting the anger and strength in his muscles he could finally use against Entreri. He mentally rehearsed that last swipe in his mind a dozen times as he had rehearsed this moment for the past several decades.

His body, however, would not follow suit.

He imagined Entreri as bloody pulp at the base of a sloping hill; Drizzt on his knees over him, face locked in cold rage as a tear streaked down his face.

Regis tried to pry the thought out; imagining all the horrible things this man had done, replaying all the torture he had inflicted on him and his friends from cutting off the halfling's own fingers to shoving a dagger blade into Drizzt's chest.

He held his mace high, but that one thought turned his arm to stone.

Regis lowered the mace, seeing a small pool of blood in front of Entreri from his head wound. He reached forward and dipped the mace in the blood, one piece of evidence to make Wenthias think he had killed the assassin.

He stayed still and looked down at Entreri, a tear coming down his face knowing he was doing the right thing.

"I should kill you now, Artemis Entreri," he said, his voice cracking but firm as he looked at the assassin's prone form. "I should purge your evil from this world. But I will not and I will do what is truly good; I will let you live because I will not break Drizzt Do'Urden's heart again."

One sob escaped the halfling's throat as he sprinted down the hallway, the tiefling and the blackguard still in view.

Entreri held his position until the patter of feet faded. He slowly lifted his head up, seeing the back of Regis' heel before he disappeared down the corridor.

His mouth quirked into a bemused smile.

"Maybe you're not such a rat after all," Entreri muttered, shoving himself off the floor.

-------

Two deep cuts in both forearms from where his blades bent underneath his bracers, two itching, searing slices across another arm; Jarlaxle's nerves screamed, the pain slightly dulled by the cool trickle of blood from each of his gaping wounds.

Satin, fine wine, sex could not even compare to the sensation right now; it was exquisite pain, a feeling that he was indeed still alive.

Jarlaxle reacted to the searing ache from Drizzt's blades with a heavy pattern of breathing; Moril did his screaming for him, a sound that was a grand accompaniment to the exhilaration he felt now.

Drizzt pressed on with a series of thrusts Jarlaxle parried instinctively, though his moves were less automatic as they had been in the past few hours of mental fog. He spun to kick Drizzt in the chest, though Drizzt rapidly slid back a few feet and immediately sliced out for Jarlaxle's waving longsword.

Jarlaxle positioned his sword in the perfect area to disengage rapidly and allow Drizzt's black scimitar give him a shallow slice across his trousers and into the flesh of his leg. His nerves screamed again, though Moril screamed louder.

You had better not be doing that on purpose, boy! Moril screamed, his voice in a mix of rage and desperation.

His extensive sympathy spell had backfired; he had commandeered his bastard son's blood to make him a perfect puppet, though had become so entangled that he felt every slice his puppet received.

Jarlaxle laughed heartily, prompting furrowed eyebrows from Drizzt as he blocked another series of feints. The energy in all of his opponent's moves was nigh gone; he was going through the motions now.

Drizzt took another look into Jarlaxle's eyes, seeing the bright shade of red that always danced with mischief and merriment. The color was dulled, though, and surrounded by a mass of diseased yellow. His face was still gaunt, though that sly smirk broke out like one beam of sunlight defying pressing storm clouds.

"Jarlaxle Baenre finally decides to pull away from daddy and come play," Drizzt said in a mocking tone, pressing in on Jarlaxle with a series of spinning feints.

Jarlaxle's smirk widened as he did a spinning kick out at Drizzt's leg, sending him scrambling for a moment though still whipping his blades as he leapt forward. Jarlaxle did another aggressive parry at WraithKiss, his sword becoming tangled with the blade as Shadowflash made a beeline for an opening around his neck.

Jarlaxle leapt back, though allowed the sword to slice through the top strap on his breastplate. He went into a crouch and spun for Drizzt's midsection, though did not parry one slice by the shortsword that cut across his forehead and made his eyes well with reactionary tears.

Moril screamed again, though the scream was suddenly replaced with maniacal laughter. Jarlaxle listened curiously for a moment before a tightness in his abdomen pulled him upright and sent his mind into a fog again.

Oh, by the way, your other companion will be dead soon, Moril said through screeching laughs, showing him an image of Regis and Gherbod Wenthias smashing their respective maces into Artemis Entreri's body as he stood nigh helpless. Don't think you can impede my progress, child, most of the champions and their minions are in one big tangle of death by their own making.

Drizzt saw Jarlaxle suddenly bolt upright, his red eyes clouding into amber once more as he launched into a flurry of blows. Drizzt spun his swords to meet every one of his swipes, the longswords tangling in his blades again and disengaging to slice him across the midsection.

Drizzt spun out of the way in time to avoid being disemboweled. His armored tunic was now sliced as a shallow gash stung through his skin.

The storm clouds had folded in on the sunshine.

----------

Entreri leapt from his prone position to his legs, which nearly buckled with the surge of pain from the mace blows to his right leg and scalp. Blood had pooled underneath him and he felt dizzy.

He braced himself on the rock wall for a moment, regaining his bearings and feeling the momentary shock subside as he smiled in spite of his discomfort.

"Just a scratch," he muttered to himself.

This was hardly dying. He knew all too well what dying felt like; this was nothing in comparison.

Entreri looked down at his leg, seeing a mass of torn flesh and exposed bone that was thankfully still in tact. He felt the back of his head and felt more hair than ripped skin. His ponytail was practically dangling off his scalp, showing the section of hair pulled back with a thick leather cord saved him from worse damage.

He took a breath and leapt into a sprint down the hall. His leg ached, though he ignored it as much as he could under the circumstances.

Moril was going to die. If Entreri wasn't the one to land the killing blow, he would watch gleefully as the Brute Squad did.

That would not happen though under the present circumstances; Wenthias and his sprog meant to take the clown head on with a few mind tricks, some large weapons, and too huge balls with too little brains.

Moril would obliterate all of them and everything was likely going according to plan; save for whatever was happening with Jarlaxle.

Entreri know Moril was but a few hundred feet away and still not weakened enough for his liking. He put his focus into his aching legs, his mind reconnecting with the shadows in his body he beckoned to mend his wounds to a more manageable state.

Wisps of shadow trailed from the wound in his leg and he felt the cold comfort surrounding the back of his head. A cloud trailed around him now as the strength in his legs returned tenfold; shadows twirling around Charon's Claw as Entreri ran forward, hearing Moril give one amused laugh.

--------

Every sword thrust and slash was an unconscious movement. Jarlaxle knew the fact his mind grasped reality that much to realize that was a wonderful moment.

Moril had taken over, though any handhold on consciousness Jarlaxle could grasp could be used to propel him upward instead of send him tumbling. He tightened his grip on reality, staring into Drizzt's masked face and peering through those cold pools of lavender.

Maybe this was the sparking blow that broke Malice's chains on Zaknafein's soul.

Jarlaxle gazed into that face through the whir of swords that sliced at each other, seeing a familiar sharp nose and furrowed brow; a handsome yet hardened face twisted into snarling rage. The fight was his true art; a calling since the moment he laid eyes on his first sword that would prove to be his only true friend.

Drizzt's purple eyes briefly flashed to fiery red for a moment in Jarlaxle's mind's eye.

In that one second he was sparring with Zaknafein; wooden swords locked during the Grand Melee, Zaknafein snarling at him while he kept his cocky smirk, two children who thought themselves gods in the only place where they were not slaves.

Jarlaxle did a rapid parry into a scimitar and wildly thrust at a shortsword, scraping his weapon against the metal and rapidly disengaging. He gazed further at Drizzt, letting those bizarre lavender eyes fade back into his vision. Zaknafein boasted endlessly about the passion in those eyes, the fire with every swing and thrust.

Zaknafein saw youthful passion in those eyes untouched by the terrible truths of his people. Now those eyes lacked their innocence; two pools iced over by decades of self doubt and anger that finally froze after a moment of vengeance against the world and never thawed, though the ice only encased that fire of passion and could never snuff it out.

Jarlaxle gave a flurry of blows, rapidly crossing forearm over forearm to try to find some opening in Drizzt's defenses. He parried all of them, giving a few double-timed feints to further throw off his rhythm.

The bright red of Jarlaxle's eyes chased off all remnants of amber, prompting an unabashed smile from Drizzt. He was breaking through somehow, though for how long remained to be seen.

Jarlaxle spun one of his blades in the air, the point going from one end of his arm to another. Drizzt aimed right for the twist, just in time for Jarlaxle to twist his blade to the opposite side of Drizzt's scimitar and letting the sharp edge connect directly with the upped knuckle of his pinkie finger.

A wave of agony shot through his hand as he saw the tip of his finger fly off in a spray of blood and land in the grass on top of the rocky crags.

Drizzt furrowed his brows as his jaw dropped in disbelief as he held Jarlaxle off from another series of spinning feints and hard parries. That last maneuver was clearly planned. Jarlaxle's face twisted in pain, though the reaction looked like one of ecstasy and not torture.

Drizzt's mind went back to the Dragonmere, to the ship when the beholders claimed Linuin after a nasty fight with Toamroth's devils. Jarlaxle constantly picked at a deep gash in his arm; using the pain as something to keep him coherent and this was likely no exception.

"You ready to finally end this horse shit, Jarlaxle Baenre," Drizzt hissed, stepping in and giving a low double thrust and giving a crosscut that Jarlaxle blocked with one blade, then the other. "Are you going to let this bastard destroy you, are you going to wait for me to finally end you, or are you going to be a fucking man and break out!"

Jarlaxle kicked out at the blades, taking another slice on his leg while spinning around and thrusting. He gave a momentary glance to the blood gushing from his maimed finger. The site was gruesome, though one other thing caught his sight that truly made his skin crawl.

A series of veins took the rough shape of spiders across his hand, spreading down his arm and continuing on likely to infinity. It was the first time he had been coherent enough to see these marks on his skin.

They were the mark of Lolth's ultimate disfavor to a drow of advanced age; her shame branded into a drow's skin by her poisons taking over the recipient's body. Jarlaxle would later see the same condition in other races having nothing to do with a disappointed goddess and everything to do with a failing organ.

Jarlaxle gave a resigned laugh. It would explain why he had been so sluggish in the tenday preceding the start of their journey. At this rate, his fate was already sealed.

Jarlaxle's features tightened. He did a wide arc with his swords, feeling the parry and disengaging at the right spot close to his body where a scimitar cut through one of the side straps on his breastplate. He launched another series of wide arcing swings, some parrying Drizzt's blades and some feints engaging him in one course of maneuvering before pushing him into a different one.

He did another twirl, Drizzt meeting his every movement and going along with the motions.

Drizzt knew full well, however, there would be no peaceful, happy end to this story. He remembered what happened with Zaknafein; an enslaved body could only last independently so long. This time he would be the one to land the final blow and not subject Jarlaxle to a hard decision. It was a predicament he did not want to be in, though it was the only way it could happen.

Jarlaxle did another series of parries and thrusts, thrusting one blade out, feinting, and leading the scimitar closer to his body. Jarlaxle broke the feint, feeling Drizzt's blade slam into the same side of his breastplate and slice the last buckle.

Jarlaxle took a few steps back, swinging one arm out and pushing the horrible embossed metal off his body. He was bare to the waist now, the cool night air flowing against his cooler skin, though making him feel alive again.

Drizzt screamed, running forward and immediately being put on his heels by an aggressive series of blows. His nimble feet found his footing on the uneven terrain and kept himself steady against the wave of force that should have kicked him over. Vhaeraun had been quiet, though one moment of concentration flashed the image of a blue mask across his brain as his energy flowed through his champion and propelled him forward.

Jarlaxle swung one sword out, the other following forward in a blur. Drizzt saw his own blades working into a whir of motion, his mind trying to keep up with every erratic parry and thrust that seemed to melt in on each other into one perfect flow of chaos. Jarlaxle's eyes were their beautiful bright red hue and focused intensely on Drizzt's face.

Drizzt stopped thinking, only registering his own unconscious movements while gazing at Jarlaxle. Both still, expressionless faces regarded each other in a peaceful moment of truth…one perfect moment of peace amid the chaos. The calm of the storm.

Jarlaxle's motions rapidly halted, sending Drizzt's arms spinning. The pommel of one longsword popped against his elbow, enough to open his hand and send the shortsword in the air for one agonizing moment. Jarlaxle's grip on one hilt loosened to let go of one weapon and tightened over the hilt of Drizzt's sword.

Jarlaxle's wrist snapped out toward Drizzt and Drizzt instinctively lifted his hand to grab Jarlaxle's wrist and hold it firm.

Jarlaxle twisted his wrist toward him, the force of Drizzt's hand moving forward with the momentum.

Drizzt shouted in horror as he watched the tip of the shortsword plunge into Jarlaxle's abdomen, feeling the force of Jarlaxle's wrist pushing the blade into himself as he gave a sharp grunt followed by a shrill gasp; red eyes widening as a river of blood passed his lips.

Drizzt's moment of shock was replaced by one moment of perfect calm. He twisted his wrist and pushed the blade further into Jarlaxle's body until he felt it cutting into the hard tissue of his diseased liver.

Jarlaxle screamed, pain keeping his body upright. Drizzt gently laid a hand on his shoulder, pulling him in closer and gazing at his rapidly decreasing life essence.

The black cord around his liver pulsated as it fed from the last bits of Jarlaxle's dying energy. Drizzt pressed the sword tip against the cord and gave a silent nod to Vhaeraun that carried all instructions of what he wanted to accomplish.

Vhaeraun smiled, his shadows surging through the sword into Jarlaxle's body. Drizzt mentally directed the black force to utterly consume every last bit of the cord.

The shadows hit the cord and Drizzt heard a loud scream through his brain that intensified. He took a few staggering breaths and put his mind into a perfect state of concentration, watching the coiling blackness envelope itself around the force that kept Jarlaxle as Moril's slave and attack its very being, vaporizing it into nothingness.

The cord shot itself at Drizzt, but ran headlong into a thick wall of shadows where it evaporated.

"Be free of your chains, old friend," Drizzt whispered into Jarlaxle's ear, feeling a river of blood rushing over his shoulder from Jarlaxle's mouth and down his tunic from the initial wound.

Jarlaxle gave a few choking gasps, though Drizzt swore he heard a few chuckles wrapped in.

A mass of black light shone through Jarlaxle's form, ending in a flash as Jarlaxle went limp in Drizzt's arms.

Drizzt took a few breaths to try to ground himself, letting the chilling wave peacefully pass as he knew his friend's bonds were completely cut.

"Nice work, kid," Jarlaxle whispered his ear.

Drizzt looked down at his friend; his body soaked in blood as his complexion was near white.

Jarlaxle's trembling lips gave a weak smile, his bright red eyes gazing at the black sky surrounded by swaying trees. Another laugh escaped his lips as he savored the first moment of complete enveloping peace he had known in too long.

He sighed, feeling Drizzt lower his body to the ground as he looked into those purple eyes again. The heaviness in his lids beckoned him further.

Those bright red eyes closed and his face relaxed. It was time at last for a decent Reverie.

--------

The piercing wail nearly knocked Entreri onto the floor, though he managed to keep his footing mid sprint.

Moril was screeching now, a mass of violent, tortured wails that vibrated through the stones and made Entreri's stomach lurch with the sheer magnitude.

It was the other scream underneath Moril's that put a heaviness in his throat and behind his eyes; Jarlaxle's shrill gasps peppered with a few last triumphant chuckles as his breath passed.

Entreri forced more energy into his step, seeing a trail of shadows following him though internally he wanted to fall on his knees and shake.

Mourning would have to wait. Moril would get over the initial shock of Jarlaxle's defeat before feasting on the last surging bits of his dying energy before he was just dead. The reality Moril could try to turn Jarlaxle's freshly dead form into a zombie like he did the rest of House Mourbasin quickened Enteri's pace.

He knew exactly where he was going, instinct propelled him down the corridor whose stones glowed with faint purple faerzress he felt as if he has seen a million times before, or at least someone had. The corridor stretched out longer than he expected, though Entreri cleared his mind again and ran faster, practically floating down to the one door on the right side of the corridor that would lead him to Moril.

In a moment he was at the opening, though a part of him knew there were no traps here. He allowed himself to trust his instincts and ran through the door.

No magic or barriers awaited him; only a corridor short in length with ceilings that extended to the top of the mountain.

Entreri took a cautious look down the corridor and ducked behind an outcropping of rock. A mass of zombie clowns stood in the hallway; all scattered yet collected in a pattern outside one large chamber door.

He readied his weapons and analyzed the creatures carefully, yet none of them tumbled, none of them even registered anything around them. All of them walked in circles, twitching wildly and letting out grotesque moans. Entreri heard Moril give another groan, followed by a sharp groan from all of the zombies.

Entreri smiled and carefully walked around the rock, slipping through the throng of zombies that had no idea he was there.

Through the crowd of creatures, the purple reflection of faerzress off a polished set of black armor caught Entreri's attention. He hid himself behind creature after creature while pacing forward.

Wenthias merely pushed a few creatures out of his way with, thankfully, no explosions. Regis' small form darted through undead legs after the blackguard as Entereri saw Asorath walking around his father with his back to the stone wall.

Entreri quickened his pace, moving from creature to creature without making any contact or giving away his form. He willed another cloud of shadows around him to obfuscate his presence as he now stood but ten feet away from the Brute Squad.

Wenthias listened at the stone door before kicking it in; the hinges breaking and the door staying in place on the other side of the frame as the blackguard and his minions casually stepped in.

Entreri paused for a moment, before stepping forward and willing himself to float with the shadows toward the doorway. With a sudden rush of cold air, he was leaning in the doorway and looking into the massive blue chamber.

The three forms of the tiefling, the blackguard, and the halfling were the only life to be found in the room, yet the series of cries and whimpers that had shot through Entreri's brain now greeted his ears through the echoes of the wide, circular room. He casually entered, peering through Wenthias and Asorath and seeing a withered figure on his knees at the base of a scrying pool.

It was a face he had seen in his visions and beheld now; a mass of misshapen flesh stretched across a skull, skin a sickly gray with the faint remnants of drow pigment left after a brutal flaying. Moril's head was low, though Entreri saw the profile complete with a small bud that had once been a nose and eyes bearing scars resembling painted diamonds.

Moril sat cross legged on the floor trembling, his deformed face buried in his gloved hands as he gave off whimpers.

In this state he hardly looked menacing, though Entreri learned from the first moments of his life appearances meant nothing in relation to power. He stared at this man with cold hate, though held back and waited to see how the potential mess in front of him would unfold.

Regis took a few tentative steps toward Moril, keeping behind the base of the scrying pool while cautiously sticking out a toe to get a better look at him; mace in hand and ready to swing while staring at the hideous creature sitting in front of him.

Asorath stepped closer and snuck a little behind him as Wenthias hoisted his weight square in front of him. His mace was in one hand as the other rested on his hip. Entreri could see the smug smile on the blackguard's face as he finally faced his quarry.

"So we meet the foul villain Moril at last," Wenthias said in a booming, proud tone that echoed through the room.

Moril's whimpering gradually ceased and his amber eyes slowly turned upward to Wenthias.

Entreri kept back, cautiously waiting for the inevitable moment when this supposedly feeble creature would strike like a cornered serpent.

Moril pulled up one finger from his glove with a shaking hand, lifting off the entire hand and revealing a scarred stump underneath.

Regis grimaced before quickly pulling his wits back. The appearance of this creature twisted his stomach, though he would remain firm to the very end.

"Gherbod Rilseveau Wenthias the third," Moril hissed, spittle spraying past his lipless mouth.

"Champion and faithful servant of Bane," Wenthias replied with a nod, casually raising his mace. "And I have come to repay some injuries you have committed upon my master."

Wenthias raised the mace, though stayed his hand as he watched Asorath double over with a scream. Moril gave what resembled a self-satisfied smirk at Wenthias, savoring the series of gasps coming from Asorath as his skin became red and his eyes bulged.

Entreri grabbed the doorway, readying himself to spring; junior tried something he shouldn't have and Moril would have one last satisfaction.

Wenthias stepped forward and swung his mace, just as Moril pointed upward at Asorath and pointed at his father.

Asorath leapt forward, green psi blade in his hand as he swung at his father. Wenthias swung at his son, hitting him in the leg with a splash of blood and a crack of bone. Asorath's eyes widened as he stared at his father.

Wenthias dropped his mace with a clang and doubled over, grabbing his head and screaming.

Regis stepped slid behind the base of the scrying pool looking at the scene in horror. A series of light, determined footsteps across the chamber took his attention away from the melee and to the shadow-encased form of Artemis Entreri walking across the hallway; blades in hand and face in hard determination.

"Play time is over, Nzifrel Baenre," Entreri shouted, pointing Charon's Claw at Moril and visualizing a cord of shadows shooting from the blade and around the clown's form.

Moril gave a gurgling cackle, until the last syllable of his true, Lolth-given name was recited.

A mass of shadow shot through the tip of the red blade, connecting briefly with a blue barrier around Moril that burst in a flash of light. The cord wrapped around his body, coiling up his neck and around his mouth while hoisting his form off the floor and into the air.

The crushing mass of shadows burned through his skin as he struggled wildly. Moril screamed a series of curses that were choked off with the shadowy cord wrapping around his throat.

Asorath feel to the floor as Wenthias' head rose to see Moril bound and gagged before him. He clenched his teeth and snatched his mace from the floor, grinning at the prone, struggling form of his quarry.

Entreri casually walked across the room, seeing Wenthias rush up to Moril and smash him in the gut with his mace, not enough to kill him but enough for him to feel pain. Moril still twitched as Regis ran forward and smashed him across the hip with his own mace with a loud shatter of bone.

Moril let out a series of muted screams, his blood spattering through the shadow cords and sizzling before drizzling the floor.

His fading vision looked past his two attackers to the other human in front of him bearing the angled nose and chisled features of Velz Auken.

Entreri gave him one shake of the head before thrusting Charon's Claw through his gut.

"Hope you enjoyed yourself," he said, feeling the shadows pour from the blade.

Moril screamed as his body was encased in black flames that consumed everything. Wenthias and Regis stood back, watching the flesh melt from his skull and his screaming skeleton twitch before them.

Wenthias hoisted his mace and slammed it into Moril's head with full force. Moril's skull exploded and his body burst into a mass of gray dust that formed a small pile on the floor.

Entreri, Regis, and Wenthias stood back; gazing at the pile of ashes on the floor with blank looks, though various emotions surged through all of them.

A ray of black light shone on the ashes, prompting all three to look back and see the mass of drow that had entered the chamber and stood back in ready positions.

Ilzir Mourbasin walked closer to the group, black spider web skirt dancing over the stones. She looked forward with calm hate in her red eyes as she aimed a wand in her hand that projected a beam of anti-matter at the ashes.

Her red lips formed into a smile at the mass of ashes that dissipated into nothingness.

Entreri gazed at her, staring at her cruel eyes surrounded by a black mask and lithe form encased in a dress of black webs. It looked as if Lolth herself stood and smirked at the obliterated remains of her failed servant.

"Here lies Nazir Klau'Thest," Entreri said, keeping his gaze to the floor, allowing himself a heaving sigh of relief.

It was now over.

-------

A gentle breeze tickled the exposed tip if his pointed ear, though his face now ached with the mass of pointed stones that dug into the side of his face.

Jarlaxle's heavy lids gradually opened to see the rocky hillside on which his form was prone. He managed to twist his torso around, feeling the itchy scratch of dried blood caked across his abdomen where it flowed like a river before. His heart pounded in his eardrums as he took a few breaths that came a bit easier than before.

He was alive.

Jarlaxle managed a groan as he turned his aching head upward and pried his eyes open.

Another set of red eyes looked down on him framed by a mass of long, blond hair. Mazn'reysla looked at him with an expression of childlike curiosity and vindictive glee.

"Well met," Jarlaxle said, his voice barely above a whisper though any coherent words were a miracle.

"It's funny," the cleric said in a chipper sneer. "There was one point in history when I would have adored seeing you sprawled out in a river of your own blood barely able to gurgle your last words. Though considering the circumstances, I have had a change of heart. So I saw you here, barely a second from kicking off this realm at last to your…well to somewhere and decided to give you a little healing spel."

Mazn'reysla patted him on the shoulder. Jarlaxle managed a smile, looking up and seeing several other black forms along the hillside.

His eyes trailed further, finally spotting one lithe form with short white hair walking dazed down the rocks. Drizzt's arms were at his sides, hands still clutching weapons whose points vibrated with his violently shaking hands.

That yellow mane got in his way again and its owner looked down at him thoughtfully.

"Can I assume you will make some effort to put me back together," Jarlaxle said with a cough he managed to turn to a laugh.

"We owe you much," Maz said, his smile actually sincere. "The process will be long and painful, though you will be your usual smarmy self in time."

Jarlaxle smiled despite the strong ache through his entire body.

"I do demand a bath, and silk bed linens," he said.

Maz smiled wider.

"What about the hair," the cleric asked.

"One thing at a time," Jarlaxle replied, letting his head rest on the ground as he looked up at the glowing red sky of daybreak with a beaming grin.