Drizzt looked over his shoulder, then back at Entreri, showing the man the onyx figurine. Truly Drizzt seemed a broken person in that moment, a flash of hopelessness evident against the mask of stoicism he typically wore.

“We have to go,” Entreri said.

Drizzt didn’t move, just looked at the statuette.

“Later,” Entreri promised.

Drizzt finally nodded and reached for his whistle, but paused and asked, “The sword?” and ran to the side of the bridge.

“Take Dahlia with you!” he instructed. “I will meet you in Neverwinter Wood!”

And with that, Drizzt sprinted along toward the far end of the bridge, then went over the rail and dropped from sight.

“I will take myself,” Dahlia growled, and she threw her cape up over her head and became a giant raven, then issued a great cawing cry to those approaching Shadovar, a cackle of challenge.

“Just flee, you idiot,” Entreri said to her, and he threw down his token and brought forth his nightmare steed. He gathered his sword and leaped onto the hell horse’s back. He reflexively looked for his dagger for just a moment, before taking satisfaction in the memory of his throw, in knowing that his dagger had gone to the Shadowfell with Alegni, had gone to the Shadowfell lodged in Herzgo Alegni’s gut.

“Perhaps you should ride with me,” Dahlia the Crow said, her voice sharper and more brusque in tone in that bird form. As she spoke, she indicated the far end of the bridge, and the host of Shadovar gathering there, as well. “It would seem that Herzgo Alegni has ultimately trapped us and not the other way around.”

Artemis Entreri ignored that last remark, considering his options. He could get into the river safely with the nightmare easing the fall, as it had done in leaping out of Sylora Salm’s treelike tower.

Or he could indeed go with Dahlia—but did he trust that she would actually fly away? Her rage bordered on insanity. The way she had thrown herself at Alegni, the spittle in her every word now . . . there was something more here, some profound scar that Entreri had not yet deciphered.

But one that seemed all too familiar to the man.

He was about to dismiss his mount and fly off with Dahlia when the decision was made for him, for in the square back the way they had come, a great commotion arose, a blowing of horns and cries of battle.

Both Entreri and Dahlia turned around to witness the spectacle, as on came the citizens of Neverwinter, Jelvus Grinch at their lead, weapons bared and fists pumping.

“Revolt,” Entreri mouthed. He turned back to Dahlia, but she was already away, taking flight and soaring for the battle.

Entreri kicked his nightmare into a gallop, fiery hooves clicking loudly on the bridge stones. Perhaps Herzgo Alegni’s final moments had escaped him, but more importantly, he had escaped Herzgo Alegni!

Effron glanced around in shock as the folk of Neverwinter descended upon the square, tearing into the flanks of his force before they even understood that an enemy was upon them.

How could the citizens have known of this moment? How could they have been so prepared to seize this unexpected opportunity?

It made no sense to him.

He surveyed the scene, trying to gauge whether he could lead the Shadovar to victory.

Then he noted the approach of the crow—of Dahlia!—and with that dangerous assassin close behind. And there was that drow, standing on a stone in the low river, picking his way to the edge of the bridge abutment and carrying Alegni’s sword.

Too many variables, he thought, shaking his head. Too much chaos and unpredictability. He looked at the giant crow, now descending his way, and he so badly wanted to lash out at her with his magic.

But that wretched panther had taken so much out of him.

Effron stepped into the shadows, back to the Shadowfell.

The wizard Glorfathel glanced to the dwarf at his side.

“Not worth the losses,” Ambergris said. “Draygo’ll be waiting to hear yer explaining.”

Glorfathel agreed with a nod, then motioned to the other Shadovar nobles, the commanders of this force, offering his permission.

Only Netherese nobles and warriors of high standing had been granted the shadowstep, but those who possessed the ability used it, and they were, invariably, the leaders of the various brigades, the commanders and the champions.

The commoner shades left behind found themselves sorely outnumbered and disorganized—and battling a group of hardy folk who were fighting for their homes.

And on came the man many knew as Barrabus, once their leading champion, and now cutting them down with abandon.

And on came Dahlia, once their opposing champion, sometimes a ferocious giant crow, other times the elf warrior they had once and still so greatly feared.

Had Alegni prevailed on the bridge, the city would be theirs. Had Effron and the others not fled, they might have had a chance.

Glorfathel recalled Draygo Quick’s instructions, and the decision was not a difficult one. He didn’t shadowstep, as had Effron, but instead enacted a gate in the middle of the square, a purplish-black glowing door inviting his charges to flee the battle.

“Meself ’ll call ’em in,” Ambergris assured him.

At that point, Glorfathel hardly seemed to care, and indeed, he was the first to use his dimensional gate.

But certainly not the last.

Many shades died, many fled through the gate or even out over the city’s walls, and many others, particularly those on the far side of the bridge, surrendered as the battle of Neverwinter quickly became a rout.

Fighting on the side of the Neverwinter garrison was Amber Gristle O’Maul, of the Adbar O’Mauls, for with a simple roll of one of the black pearls on her enchanted string of pearls, the dwarf had turned the appearance of shadowstuff into the dirt of the road. She knew who would win, obviously, and Ambergris always preferred to be on the winning side.

In the middle of the battle stood Arunika, sword in hand. More than one Shadovar leaped at the unremarkable woman, thinking her an easy kill, only to fall dead a heartbeat later.

As she watched the ranks of shades crumbling, the succubus knew that she had played this perfectly.

The Thayan threat had been defeated, and now the Shadovar had been run off.

It would not be long before the Sovereignty returned, or even if they did not, Arunika knew that she could find a place of dominance.

Shaking, and surprisingly free of bloodstains, Brother Anthus stumbled up to her, tears streaking his cheeks. For a moment, Arunika looked him over, wondering if he had sustained some grievous wound.

But no, these were tears of joy, she realized.

“I was a fool to doubt you,” the monk sputtered.

Arunika flashed him a cute smile, then knocked him from his feet with a heavy punch.

“Never make that mistake again,” she warned.

“Hear now, woman, haven’t we enough enemies to battle?” came a voice behind, and Arunika turned to see the approach of Jelvus Grinch. Unlike Anthus, this one had indeed seen battle this day—quite a bit of it, judging from the spattering of blood all around his form.

“Neverwinter is free,” he said. “Because of you.”

“Hardly,” Arunika answered, and she truly did not wish to be seen as the instigator of this revolt, or as a major player in the defeat of Alegni at all. The Netherese, after all, might well return in force!

She glanced over toward the bridge, directing Jelvus Grinch’s gaze, to see Alegni’s former champion standing near the edge, with the drow ranger moving toward him and carrying Alegni’s mighty sword. As they watched, a giant crow swept down, reverting to the form of Dahlia.

“Because of them,” Arunika corrected.

In his right hand, Drizzt held the red-bladed sword by one neck of its decorative crosspiece, the metal thickly wrapped with bandages. In his other hand, the drow held the onyx panther figurine. He was still calling to Guenhwyvar when Entreri rode his hellish steed over to join him.

Calling futilely for Guenhwyvar, the drow knew, for he could sense that the panther was beyond his reach, beyond the call of the figurine.

Dahlia swooped down beside them and reverted to her elf form. She was not happy, clearly. Drizzt didn’t need to ask her why, for he understood that she had not seen the actual death of Herzgo Alegni. Worse, Drizzt wondered, Herzgo Alegni might have escaped their attack with his dematerialization. If that thought unsettled him, and it did, what might it be doing to Dahlia, whose hatred of Alegni was more profound than anything Drizzt had ever seen?

“You should have left that thing in the river,” Entreri said, and he was shaking his head, obviously torn and obviously afraid.

“Where a common citizen of Neverwinter might have happened upon it?” Drizzt asked.

“The blade would be beyond him.”

“The blade would eat him,” Drizzt said. “Or it would enslave him . . .” The drow cast a stern gaze at Entreri, letting his disappointment show. “You would so sacrifice an unwitting person?”

“I would be free of that wretched sword, however I could!”

“It wouldn’t let you go,” Drizzt countered. “Whatever other slaves Claw might find, it would come back to you, and would force you back to it.”

“Then I should take it now and wield it?”

Drizzt looked at him, but instinctively pulled the blade farther from him. He knew a bit about sentient weapons, artifacts of great power and great ego, and he understood that Entreri, after decades of enslavement, could not begin to control Charon’s Claw, whether he held the blade or not.

Entreri knew it, too, Drizzt realized when the assassin laughed at his own absurd question.

“Destroy it, then,” Dahlia offered.

“And then I will be dust,” said Entreri, and with conviction. He gave another laugh, sad and resigned. “As I should have been half a century ago.”

Dahlia looked alarmed at that, and her expression stung at Drizzt more than it should have.

“Destroy it,” Entreri agreed. “You could not do me a greater service than to release me from the bondage of Charon’s Claw.”

“There must be another way,” Dahlia said, almost frantically.

“Destroy it,” said Entreri.

“You presume that we can,” Drizzt reminded him. Powerful artifacts were not so easily gotten rid of.

But even as he spoke the words, Drizzt found his answer. He looked at Dahlia and knew she understood it too.

For she, like Drizzt, had witnessed a force more powerful than Charon’s Claw, with a magic and energy older and more primal than even the dweomers imbued upon this magnificent, evil blade.

Part II: Common Destiny

My thoughts slip past me, slithering snakes, winding and unwinding over each other, always just ahead, coiling and darting, just out of reach.

Diving down into dark waters where I cannot follow.

One of the most common truths of life is that we all take for granted things that simply are. Whether a spouse, a friend, a family, or a home, after enough time has passed, that person, place, or situation becomes the accepted norm of our lives.

It is not until we confront the unexpected, not until the normal is no more, that we truly come to appreciate what once we had.

I have said this, I have known this, I have felt this so many times . . .