R.A. Salvatore - Maestro

His feet touched down and he quick-stepped forward, but threw his shoulders back tearing free the blades and rolling straight back to avoid another corridor-rattling swing.

The opponents paused and squared off and the Hunter saw pain in the balgura’s black eyes, and saw the lines of blood streaming from the wounds, particularly the deep shoulder cuts. And the Hunter felt that blood on his own bare forearms, and he was glad.

In he charged as the balgura brought its heavy hammer behind it for an overhead chop. The Hunter’s blades worked a dizzying blur, stabbing and slashing, and into the air he went, diving forward, scimitars crossed. He passed over the squat creature and tucked fast, setting the crook of his blades against the rising warhammer.

He lifted over the warhammer, twisting and pressing, and only finally releasing it as he spun to land lightly. Not so agile was the balgura, caught by surprise by the bold and speedy move, its balance and weight all askew. It hopped weirdly, barely able to still bring the hammer over its head, and it stumbled as it did, crashing shoulder-first into the corridor wall.

With a roar of protest, the demon bounced off that stone and whirled about.

“I wear no shackles!” proclaimed the Hunter, who was too close by then. In bore his blades, and this time, when Icingdeath found the Abyssal creature’s throat, the Hunter did not retract. He pressed in all the harder, Twinkle working independently to keep the demon’s grasping hand aside, and to repeatedly dart under the extended Icingdeath to stab at the arm that still held the warhammer.

Like a trained fighting dog, the Hunter would not let go. Icingdeath feasted, and the balgura howled.

And the balgura died.

With an angry twist of his wrist, the Hunter cut the demon’s throat as it slumped to the floor.

A roar from behind, from the corridor where he had first turned, and the Hunter had his bow in hand, fitting an arrow so fluidly that it would have appeared to any onlookers that the missile had been set on the bowstring all along.

A second balgura bore down on him, crossing the perpendicular corridor.

But the Hunter held his shot. Out of that corridor came another form, a lithe form not unlike his own.

A slender blade led, plunging through the balgura’s side. The demon howled and threw itself against the far wall, trying to turn and keep up as the second drow sped behind it, the blade working fast, thrust and retract, thrust and retract, and so cleanly and smoothly did it travel, deep into the demon’s muscle and gristle with every plunge, that the Hunter could only watch in appreciation.

With undeniable skill and perfect aim, the drow drove the deadly weapon home again and again, and always was he one stride ahead of the turning, dying demon.

When at last it crumbled in death, the second drow was once more between the Hunter and the newest kill, and Drizzt recognized him by his outrageous hat before he even turned about and dipped a polite bow.

“Well met again, my old friend,” Jarlaxle said, and he saluted with a sword Drizzt knew well: Khazid’hea, the sword more commonly known as “Cutter.”

Curiously, though, another blade rested on Jarlaxle’s hip where he would normally sheathe Cutter.

“I have searched long for you,” Jarlaxle said. “Though not as long as I might have feared,” he added with a chuckle, kicking at the balgura Drizzt had killed. “You do leave a trail of easily followed crumbs.”

“As bait for the other demons,” Drizzt explained. “Let them find me and make my hunt easier.”

“There are some powerful foes down here,” Jarlaxle warned.

“I have not yet even brought Guenhwyvar to my side. I will save her until I find another marilith, perhaps.”

Bigger foes, Jarlaxle thought but did not say. He had been apprised of the events in full and believed that several of the demon lords had come into the Underdark, with hosts of major demons with them.

“You came to join in my hunt, then,” Drizzt said. “I am glad for the company.”

“You came to find any more survivors from Icewind Dale.”

Drizzt solemnly shook his head, certain that none would be found alive.

“So you stay to exact vengeance.”

“To clear the corridors for King Bruenor’s people,” Drizzt corrected, though the thoughts were not mutually exclusive, and both were true.

“I will join in your hunt, then, if you will have me,” said Jarlaxle. “But that is not why I have come, my friend.”

Drizzt looked at him curiously, not sure what to expect.

“I have tidings, many, both dark and hopeful, from the lower tunnels,” Jarlaxle explained. “Come, let us be gone from this fetid place. I will set us a fine dinner.”

“A dinner? Down here?”

“The growl you hear is no demon, but my belly, and I am sure I will die of starvation before I find my way back to Bruenor’s halls, even if my path is clear all the way. Come.”

Drizzt shook his head, reminding himself never to be surprised by Jarlaxle-and found himself, yet again, quite astonished. As Jarlaxle turned, Drizzt caught a better view of the sword that hung on his belt. It was a sword Drizzt knew well: Charon’s Claw, the blade Drizzt had watched Artemis Entreri throw into the primordial pit.

“How?” he blurted, and Jarlaxle swung back, then followed Drizzt’s gaze down to the distinctive skeletal hilt and red blade of that most wicked weapon.

“Surely you know me better than to expect me to leave such a treasure as Charon’s Claw lying in the hot stones of a pit,” Jarlaxle innocently replied.

“You went down there to retrieve …”

“No,” Jarlaxle said casually, and he turned back and started away, “your wife did.”

Drizzt stood there stunned for a few moments. He scrambled and caught up to Jarlaxle around a bend in the corridor and into a side chamber, where the mercenary was already preparing his banquet. From a magical pouch came a table, cleverly folded so that it opened, again and again, to become a rectangular table as long as Drizzt was tall, and half that width. Chairs followed and a fine linen tablecloth as well, with plates and fine silver, large drinking goblets, and all from a pouch barely larger than the one Drizzt wore to hold the onyx figurine that summoned Guenhwyvar.

From some secret pocket inside his cloak, Jarlaxle produced a wand, and from it came a meal fit for Bruenor’s table on the highest holiday of the dwarven year.

“Sit,” Jarlaxle bade Drizzt. “And eat. We have much to talk about.”

A groan back in the corridor alerted them that they were not alone. Drizzt turned and reached for his blades, but Jarlaxle held his hand up to stop him then reached his other hand to the huge feather stuck into the band of his grand hat. He threw it down, summoning a gigantic flightless bird-a diatryma-with a huge beak that could break through a skull with ease and massive legs that would make fine drumsticks for the gods of the giants.

Off it went with a squawk that echoed about the stones. Barely had it turned the corner into the corridor when the first demon manes let out a great gasp, a burst of air flying from its suddenly torn lungs.

Jarlaxle motioned for Drizzt to sit, and took his own seat opposite, carefully laying Khazid’hea onto the table.

Drizzt did likewise with his bow, and put the onyx figurine of Guenhwyvar within easy reach as well.

Jarlaxle tore a leg from the beautifully browned turkey set on a silver platter, and hoisted his large mug, filled with fine ale, in toast. “To friends!” he said.

Drizzt lifted his own mug and nodded his agreement.

“You understand why the dwarves won so easily, do you not?” Jarlaxle asked. But then he paused, held up his hand to prevent a response, and shook his head, his expression one of disgust as he considered the tumult coming from the hallway. He reached for his belt pouch again, then reconsidered and went for a second pouch instead.