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ship.
    Gorlist’s second ship was still intact, but that was the best he could say for it. His minotaur boatswain slumped over the rail, his broad, brown-furred back bristling with arrows. The crow’s nest flamed like a candle. The drow archer stationed there had tried to leap free and had become entangled in the rat lines. His garish crimson leathers identified him as Ubergrail, the best archer in the Dragon’s Hoard. He hung there, slain by his own red arrows— Qilué was known for her disturbing sense of justice—like a bright insect caught in Lolth’s web. Other, nameless dark shapes bobbed in the water around Gorlist, silent testament to his band’s defeat.
    Nonetheless a few males still stood and fought. Heartened, Gorlist swam steadily for the ship. He seized one of the anchor lines and hauled himself up out of the water. A burst of levitation magic sent him soaring over the rail. He dispelled the magic and dropped to the deck beside a comrade.
    As Gorlist rose from his crouch, the “comrade” whirled toward him. A black fist flashed toward his face and connected with a force that snapped his head to one side. He instinctively moved with the blow, using the momentum to add distance between himself and the traitor. Drawing his sword as he turned, he blinked away the stars that danced mockingly before his eyes.
    This opponent was a tall, silver-haired drow male who crouched in guard position, waiting for Gorlist to gather himself for battle. The stranger’s foolish chivalry and silvery hair proclaimed him a follower of the hated goddess Eilistraee.
    Gorlist’s lip curled in a sneer, and he made a contemptuous beckoning gesture with one hand.
    The silver-haired drow lifted his sword in challenge. “For the Dark Maiden and our lady Qilué!”
    The mercenary fisted his beckoning hand and twisted it palm down, releasing a dart hidden in his forearm sheath. Immediately his opponent shifted his sword to deflect the projectile. It exploded on impact, sending a slick of viscous black liquid skimming over the blade.
    In less than a heartbeat, the metal of sword and hilt melted and flowed into a steaming, lethal puddle—too quickly for the drow defender to understand his doom or to toss aside his blade. Flesh and bone dissolved along with the molten steel, and the drow stumbled back, staring in disbelief at the ragged shards of bone protruding from his still-smoking wrist. His back hit the aft mast hard and he started to slide down it.
    Immediately Gorlist lunged forward and thrust his sword between two ribs—not deep enough to kill, but enough to hold the wounded drow upright. His victim didn’t even seem to notice this new injury.
    “Look at me,” Gorlist demanded softly.
    Stunned eyes flashed to his face.
    “Isn’t it enough that we must answer to the females of Menzoberranzan and their accursed Lolth? What male would cast off this yoke, only to worship Eilistraee?”
    “Elkantar,” the drow said in a fading voice. “I am Elkantar, redeemed by Eilistraee, beloved of Qilué.”
    These words filled Gorlist with fierce joy. He slammed his sword forward, felt it bite into the wooden mast behind the traitorous male, then wrenched it free.
    “That was a rhetorical question,” he told the dying drow, “but thank you for sharing.”
    “You! Drider dung!” shouted someone behind him, delivering the insult in strangely accented Drow.
    Gorlist’s moment of dark pleasure shattered. He spun to face the speaker, who strode toward him, sword in hand. The warrior was furious, female and—as if those things were not trouble enough—faerie.
    Gorlist held beliefs foreign to most of his Underdark kin, but he shared in full measure their hatred of surface elves. This particular faerie elf was tall, with moon-white skin and sleek ebony hair—a bizarre reversal of drow beauty. Her eyes were a strange shade of golden green, and a streak of silver hair, most likely the mark of Eilistraee, hung in a disheveled braid over one