The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(25)

Effron’s face grew very tight.

“To you, perhaps not,” Draygo Quick offered. “But your needs and desires are not paramount here, and indeed pale beside the larger issue that is, quite likely, Drizzt Do’Urden. So I warn you, and there will be no debate or disobedience, stay away from them.”

Effron didn’t blink for many heartbeats.

“Do this, and when the time is right I will help you find your revenge,” the old warlock promised.

That had to be good enough, for there really wasn’t any choice left to Effron. He had to admit, to himself at least, that without some help, there was little he could do against the likes of Dahlia, Drizzt Do’Urden, and Barrabus the Gray, any one of whom would prove a formidable foe.

“Valindra Shadowmantle,” he replied quietly. “Of course.”





Effron hadn’t even left the room fully before Draygo Quick settled once more on the floor, closed his eyes, and measured his own breathing to calm himself and prepare for a return trip into the senses of the panther. At long last, his wits clear and strong once again, he summoned the connection.

An image formed in his mind, surprisingly clear given the darkness. Night had fallen—had it been that long?—and Draygo Quick found himself off-balance in the senses of Guenhwyvar again. The panther’s eyes caught what little light there was around and magnified it many times over, giving the tree branches a strange, shadowy appearance. Stark, contrasting, colorless lines demarked the edges of the twigs waving in the night breeze.

He could hear the heartbeats of his two companions, clearly and distinctly. How curious, then, when Guenhwyvar turned her head to reveal not just Dahlia and Drizzt, but a third companion as well, a grubby-looking dwarf dressed in ridged armor and with a helmet spike half again as tall as he!

This was the one without the heartbeat, Draygo Quick understood, and given the previous conversation, he knew why. This could get interesting, and important, he thought.

“Go home, Guen,” Drizzt said then … and all became a mist of gray fog and swirling vapors.

Back in his room, Draygo Quick cursed his misfortune. Dahlia and the drow had found an old friend, it seemed, a dwarf turned vampire. Draygo wanted to see how that might play out. If Drizzt Do’Urden aligned himself with a vampire, even a former friend turned to darkness, that might be a powerful clue regarding which goddess would name this particular drow as a chosen disciple. Would Mielikki, the goddess of nature, accept such an unnatural creature?

And wouldn’t Lady Lolth love such a union?

Draygo Quick could only sigh and remind himself to be patient. Guenhwyvar was back in her cage.

But Drizzt would call her again.





“I’ll be wantin’ to eat,” Thibbledorf Pwent dourly remarked. After Drizzt and Dahlia had found him in the forest, he had returned to his lair, a cave in the hills. “And it might be that this time I won’t find any goblins.”

“You won’t,” Drizzt insisted, or begged, actually, though he had tried to mask that desperation from Dahlia, and particularly from Pwent. Unsuccessfully, he knew when he regarded the elf woman.

“No?” the dwarf answered. “Ye don’t know that, elf.” He walked toward the mouth of the cave and plopped himself down on the floor. He seemed even more dispirited than Drizzt. “I died. Should still be dead. Might be that I’ll just sit right here, wait for the sun.”

Drizzt didn’t doubt his resolve. This was Pwent, after all.

Beyond the dwarf, the air began to brighten a bit as the pre-dawn glow lit up the east.

“That might be best,” Dahlia said, walking past him and out into the open air. She added flippantly, “There is little chance of you feasting on some poor child when you are but dust.”

“When you’re dust,” Drizzt silently mouthed, and he couldn’t help but grimace as he watched Dahlia walk away. She didn’t understand the loss here, or the indignation. That the proud and loyal battlerager should be reduced to this wretched fate was almost more than Drizzt could bear.

And Dahlia didn’t seem to care in the least. Indeed, her emphasis on that last word, “dust,” had Drizzt shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. He walked over to his friend and put a hand on Pwent’s sturdy shoulder.

“There must be a way,” he said.

“Nah, but there ain’t,” said Pwent.

“There is no turning back the curse of vampirism,” Dahlia said, rather coldly. “I have known such creatures, for they abound in Thay. Many tried—oh, how they tried!—to return to the light. The mightiest of the Red Wizards and the most powerful priests sought these answers. But alas, there is no return.”

Drizzt stared at her coldly, but the elf woman merely shrugged.

The drow wondered what he might do. This was Pwent, loyal Pwent. Thibbledorf Pwent, who had led Stokely Silverstream and his boys from Icewind Dale to help in the fight in Gauntlgrym. Thibbledorf Pwent, who had carried Bruenor across the primordial pit and helped his beloved king pull the lever to trap the fiery beast back in its hole.

Thibbledorf Pwent, the hero.

Thibbledorf Pwent, the vampire.

Drizzt looked inside his own heart—what would he do if he had been so afflicted? He couldn’t deny the dwarf’s logic. Pwent was a vampire, and a vampire would feast. The smell of blood would surely overrule any moral code, for that was the way of it. There was no avoiding that truth of the curse, and there was, alas, no cure to the affliction.