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Iljrene studied the drawing for a moment. "We'll send two patrols to attack the merchant ships. That will draw their fighters up through this tunnel. When the way is clear, Liriel will open a portal into the hoard room, then find and engage the wizard."

"She should not go alone," protested Fyodor. "What if guards remain?"

"That is unlikely. Nisstyre's people have no reason to suspect we know the location of his stronghold," reasoned Iljrene. "They will see no further than the attack on the ship. They carry slaves, among other cargo, and they know that this alone is enough to arouse the ire of the Dark Maiden."

"And why should he post guards, with a dragon in residence?" added Elkantar, leaning close over his battlemas-ter's shoulder to study the drawing.

"Exactly," Iljrene agreed. "Which brings us to the dragon, Zz'Pzora, you will ensure that Pharx remains in his lair. Keep him engaged, in battle or otherwise, until the way is cleared and our forces arrive."

The drow-shaped dragon eyed the battlemaster's exquisite, silvery gown with open greed. "Lend me that dress, girlie, and it's a deal."

"Done. Liriel, are you ready to face Nisstyre?"

The young wizard smiled grimly. "I'd be happier if I had the amulet, but I'm as ready as I can be. Did you leave my gem in Pharx's hoard room, Zip?"

"Yes, and it nearly killed me to do it," grumbled the dragon's right-headed persona, emerging for a moment to mourn the treasure that had slipped through her purple fingers. "A black sapphire!"

"What would you have me do?" asked Fyodor. The young warrior had spent the past few days on the fringes of the group, watching the preparations intently. What he saw reassured him greatly, for the dedicated drow commanders reminded him of the Fangs of Rashemen—the canny chieftains who defended their tiny land against much stronger foes. Still, he was not sure of his place in all this.

Elkantar shook his head. "We could certainly use your sword, friend, but it's best you remain in the temple, far from battle. If the battle frenzy should come upon you, could you tell one drow from another?"

The Rashemi had no answer for this argument, but his blue eyes burned with frustration as he listened to the drow plan each stage of their attack. Never, not in all the months since his berserker magic went awry, had Fyodor felt so utterly helpless. He searched his storehouse of old tales, hoping to find an answer there. Inspiration, when at last it came, did little to set his mind at ease.

When the meeting ended and those present scattered to prepare for battle, Fyodor beckoned one of their number into a private corridor. As he laid out the terms of his offer, his mind rang with the warning of an old Rashemi proverb:

He who would bargain with a dragon is either a fool or a corpse.

The ships of the Dragon's Hoard were well guarded. Fully loaded and tied at the dock, they presented a tempting target. Drow mercenaries walked the docks, and dark-elven archers kept watch from the aft castles and crow's nests of the waiting ships. The merchants of the Dragon's

Hoard were not unaware that Eilistraee's drow had expressed earnest interest in their business, and they did not have to think long to understand why. Packed in the hold of one ship was a score of drow children: unwanted males who would bring a fine price as slaves in the far-off cities of the south. The priestesses of the Dark Maiden took a dim view of such things and were foolish enough to attempt a rescue. So far they'd shown admirable restraint, but there was no predicting what the drow of the Promenade Temple might do.

Not far from the ships, far beneath the surface of the fetid water, Iljrene and ten of her fellow priestesses clung to the rocky seabed and waited. According to Liriel's deep dragon, the tunnel from the merchants' stronghold ended here, in the solid rock of the harbor's floor. Each merchant of the Dragon's Hoard wore a magical pendant that allowed him to pass through the rocky wall at will. It was Iljrene's task to harvest of few of those pendants.

Armed with short swords and a spell that enabled them to breathe underwater for a short period of time, the priestesses waited anxiously, straining their ears for the sounds of battle above. Iljrene trusted Elkantar—he was her commander and she had fought under him for nearly a century—but this task required precise timing. If Elkantar's patrol did not strike soon, the lurking priestesses would run out of air. Yet they could not come to the surface, for doing so would alert the Dragon's Hoard mercenaries and put Elkantar's people in peril. So Iljrene schooled her thoughts to icy calm, and bided her time.

Under the command of Elkantar, a double patrol of Protectors swam toward the docked ships. They'd come in from the Sea Caves, down the watery gates that transported ships into Skullport's hidden harbor, and in from the dark water beyond the docks. His forces paddled stealthily toward the ships: a score of drow, their silvery heads covered by tight, dark hoods; six men; and a halfling—all adventurers rescued by Eilistraee's priestesses and pledged to the Dark Maiden's service.

As he swam, Elkantar took the measure of the forces arrayed against his band. At least a dozen well-armed drow mercenaries patrolled the docks, and as many walked the decks of each of the two ships. Their ranks were supported by minotaur guards and deadly, dark-elven archers. The battle would be costly, yet Elkantar did not for a moment reconsider his course. Qilue Veladorn was not only his consort, but his liege lady. He had sworn to her; he would gladly do anything—even die—for her. But this task he would have done regardless. The long years fell away as the drow remembered another, similar vessel. That time, Elkantar had been chained in the cargo hold: a warrior-trained youth, nobly born but too rebellious for his matron mother's liking. What he had endured during his slavery, and how he'd finally made his escape, pressed heavily on him now.

But this was a time for action, not for memories.

The bow of the ship nearest him was pointed away from the docks and was the area least heavily guarded, A lone minotaur paced the deck of the forecastle. Elkantar raised a small, crossbow-shaped harpoon and took aim. The bolt flew silently toward its target, trailing a length of nearly invisible spider-silk rope. The barbed weapon tore into the bull-man's massive chest. Instantly dead, the creature slumped against the railing, head lolling out over the water. He looked for all the world as if he were a seasick sailor reconsidering his last meal.

Elkantar swam right up to the ship. He tugged at the rope; it held, and he scrambled up the curving hull to the forecastle. Using the minotaur's body as a shield, he hauled himself over the railing. At once an alarm sounded, and an arrow streaked down from the crow's nest, missing him but sinking with a meaty thud into the lifeless minotaur. Elkantar returned fire with a handbow, rapidly sending dart after dart toward the archer.

Meanwhile, his band had found the web of ropes alongside the.ships and had swarmed up onto the decks. The ship guards rushed to do battle, and the drow guarding the docks surged up the gangplanks onto the ship, drawing their weapons as they ran. Swords clashed as the drow battled hand to hand.

The Chosen might have held off the fighters, but the archers in the crow's nests picked off the valiant invaders one by one. Elkantar watched, helpless, as an arrow took one of his fighters through the throat. He turned to his second—a tall, grim halfling who had followed him up the rope—and pointed toward the crow's nest. The halfling nodded and dropped to one knee behind the sheltering bulk of the mino-taur. The small archer sent arrow after arrow toward the mast, effectively pinning the deadly archer down.

Meanwhile, a small band of priestesses followed Qilue through the dark waters. One of them, supported out of the water by two of her sisters, managed to toss a rope around the bowsprit. Qilue went first, climbing lithely up the rope and leaping onto the ship's forecastle.

The sight before her stole her breath. Elkantar, her beloved, ran with acrobatic grace up a rope that sloped steeply from the aft castle to the top of the mast. His knife was drawn; he clearly intended to take out the troublesome archer. It was the sort of risky and valiant plan she'd come to expect from her consort, and, considering the storm of arrows raging around the mast, it might well be his last.

The priestess knew a moment of despair. She had loved and lost far too often in her many centuries of life; she could not bear to lose Elkantar, as well. But such choices were not hers to make. So Qilue drew her singing sword and held it high, taking strength as its song—the eerie, haunting tones of an elven soprano commingled with the call of Eilistraee's hunting horn—leaped forth.

The magical sound galvanized the priestesses who followed her. Five more swords flashed in the faint light, joining in a chorus that rang out pure and strong above the clash of battle and the screams of the dying.

Far below the shipboard battle, Hjrene and her priestesses hugged the harbor floor and watched the hidden portal. Suddenly drow mercenaries, no doubt responding to a summons from the beleaguered ships, burst from the solid stone. The drow fighters rose quickly through the water, intent upon the shadowy forms of the ships.

Iljrene counted carefully as thirty drow swept past her hiding place on their way to battle. From all the information her spies had gathered, it seemed unlikely that more than forty drow remained in the stronghold. The final ten, therefore, were the targets. When these had passed, the battle-master nodded, and each priestess swam quickly toward her chosen mark. The females struck from behind, each of them slicing a drow throat and releasing a magical pendant in one blow. Iljrene had no quarrel with such tactics; this was an ambush, not a duel of honor.

Triumphantly the priestesses swam down to the portal. Clutching the pendants, all ten of them hurtled through the invisible magic door. They rolled, drenched and gasping for air, onto a rocky-floored tunnel.

Right into the path of two-score onrushing guards.

The drow males pulled up short, startled by the unexpected arrival of the Prometiade forces. Iljrene leaped to her feet and brandished a sword, taking advantage of the merchants' surprise to buy a moment's time for her equally nonplused priestesses.

Four-to-one, she acknowledged grimly as she faced off against the closest male. Granted, the narrow tunnel gave the females some advantage—no more than four could fight at once—but the mercenaries could replace their slain as quickly as they fell. As she slashed and darted and danced, the tiny battlemaster determined to lower the odds as much as she could before another priestess was forced to step into her place.

Gold coins, a mountain of them, shifted beneath Liriel's feet. Magic weapons, priceless statues and vases, and exquisite musical instruments were heaped around the base of the golden, gem-studded hill. The drow released a long, silent sigh of relief; she'd gotten into the dragon's hoard room.

Liriel stooped and picked up the glittering black sapphire at her feet, the gem ZzTzora had planted there. Properly enspelled, the sapphire had been the final ingredient to opening the portal into Nisstyre's stronghold. But Liriel did not pause to savor this triumph. Cautiously she made her way down the treasure heap, sliding on the shifting coins with each step. Usually the slightest disturbance of a dragon's hoard brought the fey creature roaring toward battle. The sounds coming from Pharx's lair suggested Zz'Pzora was tending to her assigned task with unusual vigor and relish. The male dragon was well and truly distracted.

Not wanting to chance too much on the capricious ZzTzora, Liriel made her way quickly through the tunnels that led into the merchants' quarters. Far above, muted by the stone, she heard the faint sounds of battle, but the corridors were deserted. Then, at the base of one of the closed stone doors, she saw a sliver of light. She crept close, and eased the door open.

In a small chamber sat the copper-haired wizard, wrapped in a shawl and studying the Windwalker by the light of a single candle.

"Having any hick?" Liriel said mockingly. Nisstyre started at the sound of her voice and spun to face her. He was thinner than when she'd last seen him, and his black eyes burned in his haggard face. The ruby embedded in his forehead flared with angry red light. "How does it work?" he demanded, brandishing the amulet. "Its secrets yield to no drow magic!"

"I'll gladly give you a demonstration," the girl challenged. "Give me the amulet, then test me in battle!"

"I have no wish to harm you."

"Afraid to try?" Liriel taunted.

The wizard scoffed and held up his left hand. The gold and onyx ring that had once belonged to Kharza-kzad Xorlarrin glinted in the candlelight. "I bested your tutor. Can the student do better?"

Liriel shrugged. "Look at it this way: you want information, and the only way you'll get it from me is to kill me and converse with my spirit."

The gem in Nisstyre's forehead flared again, brighter this time. He winced, and his face contorted with pain and frustration. He hurled the amulet at Liriel, accidentally knocking over the candle and plunging the room into utter darkness.

"Very well, I'll fight her!" he shouted. "Watch if you must, but by all the gods, hold your wretched tongue!"

Liriel peered at the wizard. He was not talking to her, but to some unseen person. Someone who could hear what she said, perhaps see what she did. Someone who wanted her dead. Her gaze flickered over to Nisstyre's ruby eye, and a plan began to formulate in her mind.

Quickly she stooped and picked up the Windwalker amulet. The drow magic captured within—her own magical essence—coursed through her in a blissful tide of power. Dark-elven spells danced ready in her mind; faerie fire and darkness vied for a place at her fingertips. For the first time in many days Liriel felt complete. She dropped a quick kiss on the tiny golden sheath and hung the amulet around her neck. Then, with a quick sweep of her hand, she sent the first of her magic weapons hurtling toward Nisstyre.

A pulse of crackling black energy sped toward the wizard. Nisstyre was faster still. He disappeared, and the magic missile passed through his lingering heat shadow to explode against the far wall.