Regis had gotten through it, had found a way to circumvent its power.

Regis.

Wulfgar found his answer.

He gave a final heave on the Taros Hoop, then released it quickly, sending the portal into a momentary wobble. Wulfgar didn’t hesitate to watch the eerie spectacle. He dove down and snatched the pearl-tipped scepter from Drizzt’s belt, then leaped up straight and slammed the fragile device onto the top of the Taros Hoop, shattering the black pearl into a thousand tiny shards.

At that same moment, LaValle uttered the last syllable of his spell, releasing a mighty bolt of energy. It ripped past Wulfgar, searing the hairs on his arm, and blasted into the center of the Taros Hoop. The glassy image, cracked into the circular design of a spider’s web by Wulfgar’s cunning strike, broke apart altogether.

The ensuing explosion rocked the foundations of the guildhouse.

Thick patches of darkness swirled about the room; the onlookers perceived the whole place to be spinning, and a sudden wind whistled and howled in their ears, as though they had all been caught in the tumult of a rift in the very planes of existence. Black smoke and fumes rushed in upon them. The darkness became total.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it passed away and daylight returned to the battered room. Drizzt and Bruenor were the first to their feet, studying the damage and the survivors.

The Taros Hoop lay twisted and shattered, a bent frame of worthless iron with a sticky, weblike substance clinging stubbornly in torn patches. A winged demodand lay dead on the floor, the severed arm of another creature beside it, and half the body of yet another beside that, still twitching in death, with thick, dark fluids spilling onto the floor.

A dozen feet back sat Wulfgar, propped up on his elbows and looking perplexed, one arm bright red from LaValle’s energy bolt, his face blackened by the rush of smoke, and his entire frame matted in the gooey webbing. A hundred little dots of blood dotted the barbarian’s body. Apparently the glassy image of the planar portal had been more than just an image.

Wulfgar looked at his friends distantly, blinked his eyes a few times, and dropped flat on his back.

LaValle groaned, catching the notice of Drizzt and Bruenor. The wizard started to struggle back to his knees, but realized that he would only be exposing himself to the victorious invaders. He slumped back to the floor and lay very still.

Drizzt and Bruenor looked at each other, wondering what to do next.

“Fine to see the light again,” came a soft voice below them. They looked down to meet the gaze of Catti-brie, her deep blue eyes opened once again.

Bruenor, in tears, dropped to his knees and huddled over her. Drizzt started to follow the dwarf’s lead, but sensed that theirs should be a private moment. He gave a comforting pat on Bruenor’s shoulder and walked away to make sure that Wulfgar was all right.

A sudden burst of movement interrupted him as he knelt over his barbarian friend. The great throne, torn and scorched against the wall, toppled forward. Drizzt held it away easily, but while he was engaged, he saw Pasha Pook dart out from behind the object and bolt for the room’s main door.

“Bruenor!” Drizzt called, but he knew even as he said it that the dwarf was too caught up with his daughter to be bothered. Drizzt pushed the great chair away and pulled Taulmaril off his back, stringing it as he started in pursuit.

Pook rushed through the door, swinging around to slam it behind him. “Rassit—” he started to yell as he turned back toward the stairs, but the word stuck in his throat when he saw Regis, arms crossed, standing before him at the top of the stairway.

“You!” Pook roared, his face twisting and his hands clenching in rage.

“No, him,” Regis corrected, pointing a finger above as a sleek black form leaped over him.

To the stunned Pook, Guenhwyvar appeared as no more than a flying ball of big teeth and claws.

By the time Drizzt got through the door, Pook’s reign as guildmaster had come to a crashing end.

“Guenhwyvar!” the drow called, within reach of his treasured companion for the first time in many weeks. The big panther loped over to Drizzt and nuzzled him warmly, every bit as happy with the reunion.

Other sights and sounds kept the meeting short, however. First there was Regis, reclining comfortably on the decorated banister, his hands locked behind his head and his furry feet crossed. Drizzt was glad to see Regis again, as well, but more disturbing to the drow were the sounds echoing up the stairs: screams of terror and throaty growls.

Bruenor heard them, too, and he came out of the room to investigate. “Rumblebelly!” he hailed Regis, following Drizzt to the halfling’s side.

They looked down the great stairway at the battles below. Every now and then, a wererat crossed by, pursued by a panther. One group of ratmen formed a defensive circle, their blades flashing about to deter Guenhwyvar’s feline friends, right below the friends, but a wave of black fur and gleaming teeth buried them where they stood.

“Cats?” Bruenor gawked at Regis. “Ye brought cats?”

Regis smiled and shifted his head in his hands. “You know a better way to get rid of mice?”

Bruenor shook his head and couldn’t hide his own smile. He looked back at the body of the man who had fled the room. “Dead, too,” he remarked grimly.

“That was Pook,” Regis told them, though they had already guessed the guildmaster’s identity. “Now he is gone, and so, I believe, will his wererats associates be.”

Regis looked at Drizzt, knowing an explanation to be necessary. “Guenhwyvar’s friends are only hunting the ratmen,” he said. “And him, of course.” He pointed to Pook. “The regular thieves are hiding in their rooms—if they’re smart—but the panthers wouldn’t hurt them anyway.”

Drizzt nodded his approval at the discretion Regis and Guenhwyvar had chosen. Guenhwyvar was not a vigilante.

“We all came through the statue,” Regis continued. “I kept it with me when I went out of Tarterus with Guenhwyvar. The cats can go back through it to their own plane when their work is done.” He tossed the figurine back to its rightful owner.

A curious look came over the halfling’s face. He snapped his fingers and hopped down from the banister, as if his last action had given him an idea. He ran to Pook, rolled the former guildmaster’s head to the side—trying to ignore the very conspicuous wound in Pook’s neck—and lifted off the ruby pendant that had started the whole adventure. Satisfied, Regis turned to the very curious stares of his two friends.

“Time to make some allies,” the halfling explained, and he darted off down the stairs.

Bruenor and Drizzt looked at each other in disbelief.

“He’ll own the guild,” Bruenor assured the drow.

Drizzt didn’t argue the point.

From an alley on Rogues Circle, Rassiter, again in his human form, heard the dying screams of his fellow ratmen. He had been smart enough to understand that the guild was overmatched by the heroes from the North, and when Pook sent him down to rally the fight, he had slipped instead back into the protection of the sewers.

Now he could only listen to the cries and wonder how many of his lycanthrope kin would survive the dark day. “I will build a new guild,” he vowed to himself, though he fully understood the enormity of the task, especially now that he had achieved such notoriety in Calimport. Perhaps he could travel to another city—Memnon or Baldur’s Gate—farther up the coast.

His ponderings came to an abrupt end as the flat of a curving blade came to rest on his shoulder, the razor edge cutting a tiny line across the side of his neck.

Rassiter held up a jeweled dagger. “This is yours, I believe,” he said, trying to sound calm. The saber slipped away and Rassiter turned to face Artemis Entreri.