Hadn’t danger been his choice, his preference?

He closed his eyes and imagined the “softer” Dahlia, tending his arm, her hair bouncing lightly around her shoulders, her face clean and fresh and unblemished. He opened his eyes and looked upon her again, considering the change that seemed to come over her at a whim.

Drizzt remembered his midnight ride to Luskan and back, the exuberance of the danger, the thrill of the hunt. Those emotions better accompanied this incarnation of Dahlia. Even though she’d worn the softer look when they ventured into Luskan, it was this impression of Dahlia that helped Drizzt take the risks and enjoy the experience with little regard for the consequences. This incarnation of Dahlia was not vulnerable, was hardly delicate.

As he trotted down to join his lover, it occurred to Drizzt that perhaps he’d become as paradoxical as she.

“Have you ever been in love?” she asked without looking back at him as he neared.

The question stopped him in his tracks.

“Tell me about her,” Dahlia said.

Memories of Catti-brie swirled around his thoughts, and it occurred to him that he would likely tell Dahlia of Catti-brie in a different way, with different emphasis and different tales, if she’d been wearing her softer guise.

She looked up at him and wore a smile, though it was lost in the mesmerizing swirl of her woad. Perhaps she meant it to be a warm smile, but he couldn’t tell.

“It was a long time ago,” he managed to reply.

Dahlia laughed at him. “I’m not jealous,” she assured him.

“I know.” His voice was flat.

Dahlia’s smile disappeared, replaced by a pensive look then a slight nod of understanding. “Tell me of the dwarf, then. Of this King Bruenor Battlehammer. I knew him only for a short while, but he intrigued me. How long did you know him?”

“More than a century,” Drizzt replied, and he found he was indeed more at ease then. It would be far easier to speak of Bruenor than of Catti-brie, particularly to Dahlia. “Perhaps closer to two centuries.”

“From afar?”

“My closest friend.”

“For a hundred and fifty years?” Dahlia asked incredulously, and her smile returned, this time reflecting astonishment.

“Would that I had him beside me for another hundred,” Drizzt said.

“Instead of me?”

The suddenness of her question again threw the drow off-balance. He had to think about the answer—and wondered how he might phrase his impulsive thoughts even if he could sort them out.

Dahlia laughed again, relieving the tension. “Beside me, perhaps?” she offered.

“I’ll tell you of him and let you decide,” Drizzt replied, glad for the out.

“And of your lover?”

Drizzt felt his face grow tight.

Dahlia reached down and retrieved her wide leather hat and plopped it on her head, adjusting her braid so that it curled around her shapely neck and ended at the top of her cleavage.

“Come,” she said as she rose. “The road lies before us and I wish to hear your tales of King Bruenor.”

Drizzt moved down to the stream and vigorously shook his wounded arm in the cold water. He hustled to catch up to Dahlia, drawing a bandage from his pouch as he went. By the time they reached the road and he lifted his whistle to summon Andahar, he’d wrapped the arm from above the elbow all the way to the wrist. For the rest of that day as they rode, he clenched and unclenched his fist, battling the tingles of the residual devilish poison, and his bandage soon enough showed more than one red stain from the renewed blood flow.

Drizzt didn’t care about that inconvenience, however, for he told the tales of Bruenor, as Dahlia bade him. Those stories, happy and thrilling and filled with love and friendship, forcibly battled a different type of poison within the heart and soul of Drizzt Do’Urden.

They set their camp long after the sun had disappeared below the horizon, and were off again before the light of dawn. Andahar carried them effortlessly. Soon enough, they came to the northern reaches of Neverwinter, but on Dahlia’s insistence, they didn’t venture into the settlement. They set their camp just northeast of the town.

While looking for some wood for their small fire, Drizzt heard a rustle of leaves, a footstep. That alone didn’t concern him too greatly—the Neverwinter Guard was likely around the area, and they were not enemies, after all. But as he moved around to investigate, using all the stealth that marked the night as the time of the drow, Drizzt quickly grew more concerned, for whomever he followed showed himself to be quite practiced at the art of avoidance.

The drow at last spotted his quarry, and when he did, he understood why it had taken him so long to locate the source of the noise that had brought him deeper into the forest. The moon was full and bright, after all, and Drizzt’s drow eyes could cut through the shadows on a night like this as easily as in full sunlight. Any normal traveler, even a city guard, should have been easy to spot. But now, finally, when Drizzt discovered the source of that footstep, he forgave himself for not locating this one earlier.

The man—or woman, he couldn’t tell—was of the Shadowfell, a shade who blended into the darkness beneath one wide-spread elm so easily Drizzt for a moment wondered if he were watching a Netherese lord shift back into that dark realm.

He spotted his prey again, and knew then that it was indeed a man, heavyset and powerfully built. Again Drizzt took up the silent pursuit, moving as invisibly as the other, and far more quietly with his practiced steps and full understanding of the forest floor. He smelled the campfire before he spotted it, and moved more quickly. He counted at least three more shades, all in armor and strapped with weapons.

He recalled what Dahlia had told him of the turmoil in the wood and recognized the war party for what it was.

Drizzt soon enough melted into the night and trotted back the way he’d come.

To his surprise, he found Dahlia on the edge of their camp, her staff already broken into flails and looped over her sash belt on either hip, within ready grasp.

“Shadovar—” Drizzt started to say.

“I know. I smell them,” Dahlia said.

“A handful,” Drizzt explained, nodding his chin toward the distant camp. “Just over those hills. We can swing off to the west, down near to the coast and …”

He stopped talking when Dahlia simply walked away from him into the forest, straight as a killing arrow in the direction of the Shadovar encampment.

Drizzt watched her curiously. “We need not fight them,” he called after her, but she didn’t slow.

“Aren’t the Netherese the enemies of the Thayans?” he asked when he caught up to her.

“Mortal enemies,” Dahlia replied, but she didn’t stop her march.

“So Sylora Salm would wish us to do battle with this group?” Drizzt asked, hoping to shake Dahlia free of the almost trancelike state that had come over her. Even in the dim light, he could see the rage simmering in her sparkling eyes. She had her weapons off her belt by then, and clutched them so tightly that her skin, appearing pale even in the starlight, seemed brighter around the knuckles, as if white hot with anger.

“If we battle with the shades, do we not do Sylora’s bidding?” he asked again.

Dahlia stopped and turned to face him directly. “The Netherese and the Thayans vie for control of Neverwinter Wood,” she admitted. “Yes—are you pleased with yourself?—Sylora Salm would want this group slain, would want all these foul grayskins slain.”

“Then let’s go the other way,” Drizzt took a step back toward their own camp, already a considerable distance behind them.

But Dahlia’s chuckle denied him. “Not everything in my life is about the desires of Sylora Salm,” she said, continuing on her way.

Again Drizzt caught up to her, to find her expression no less resolute than before.

There would be no reasoning with her, Drizzt realized. Over the hills and through the valleys, Dahlia’s path remained straight in the direction Drizzt had pointed, toward the Shadovar encampment.

Drizzt had little first-hand knowledge of the Empire of Netheril and little experience with the minions of Shadowfell. He tried to sort this out, for he knew he wouldn’t let Dahlia go into this fight alone. He was more than glad to accompany her in her mission to kill Sylora Salm, both because of the devastation Sylora had wrought on the city of Neverwinter and for the loss of Bruenor. Given that decision, did it matter if Drizzt and Dahlia’s actions now would be to Sylora’s temporary benefit?

Drizzt had no love, no friendship, and not even the benefit of the doubt for the Shadovar and their foul designs.

“There are at least four,” he whispered to Dahlia.

They were getting fairly close to the camp. Dahlia stopped and looked down at his scimitars. She smiled when Drizzt drew them, then she nodded and started to run.

Over the hill, they spotted the campfire, and Dahlia didn’t slow.

Drizzt remained a few strides behind, easily pacing her with his anklets and superior lowlight vision, and because of both, he was even able to match her strides while keeping himself fairly well concealed. He put away his scimitars and took up Taulmaril instead.

He spotted one Shadovar in the low branches of a tree, but apparently Dahlia didn’t. She continued right under the perch.

The Shadovar leaped down at her and flew aside with a shocked and pained shriek as Drizzt drilled him with a lightning arrow.

Dahlia skidded to a stop and spun around just long enough to snap a double-strike, left and right, into the face of her wounded attacker, cracking his skull.

On she ran, the camp in sight and now full of activity.

“Down left!” Drizzt called to her.

Into the firelight went Dahlia, to learn that Drizzt’s estimate of their enemies had been low, for even with the fallen Shadovar outside the camp, five Shadovar stood in front of her.

She did as Drizzt had instructed, a sidelong roll to her left, and a pair of arrows soared past her, cleanly removing the middle opponent from their rough semicircle.

Dahlia came up engaged with the pair on the left, and as the two from the right moved to surround her, another arrow flashed through, driving them back, and a dark form came leaping in, scimitars glowing and spinning.

Dahlia furiously pressed her momentum at the pair in front of her, her flails whirling out wide and slamming in powerfully at her opponents. She had them on their heels and meant to keep them there, relentlessly assaulting, left and right, overhand and underhand.

The Shadovar to her left flank managed to stab at her, but her left-hand flail intercepted with a backhanded block, the top pole flipping right over to wrap the sword. Her right hand came across to similarly slap and wrap the sword, and before the Shadovar could retract, Dahlia yelled and threw both her hands out wide, each flail pulling free in the same rotation, spinning the blade and thus tearing it from the swordsman’s grasp.

Dahlia rotated her left wrist, sending the flail in a spin, and clipped the Shadovar in the face as it came around.

Dahlia retreated from the other Shadovar at the same time, half-turning and dropping her right foot back behind her left, and with her new alignment, she brought her right hand across in front of her, bending her wrist once, twice, thrice, and snapping that second flail like a whip, the flying pole biting forth to jab the Shadovar hard in the face.