Entreri stood motionlessly inside the ring. He looked at his opponent, Xorian Rockbottom, a Dwarf wielding two short axes. The dwarf was taller than most, almost five feet tall, and his stubby hands twirled the axes in an impressive display. Along with his agility, it was evident to all that he was built like . . . well . . . he was built like a dwarf.

Entreri had fought against few dwarves. He had run into some druegar in the Underdark, and he had fought some of Bruenor's soldiers when he had kidnapped Catti-brie in his hunt for Regis, but none of those battles had been fair. He had always struck from the shadows against an unprepared and untrained foe.

Dwarves were unique among the stronger races in that they lacked none of the speed or quickness that size usually takes away. Though very strong, ogres, giants, and even barbarians are often lumbering clods. Dwarves are not.

Still, Entreri felt confident he could handle this enemy. He just wondered how he should do it. He glanced about at the audience. His eyes first found Deltrophan. The mage was not hard to read. He obviously preferred humans or races that closely resembled humans and enjoyed the flamboyant fighting style. After all, this was for entertainment. Someone who could twirl and slash was far more entertaining than someone who simply crushed his opponents. For that reason, Entreri wondered if he shouldn't play this fight up, hoping to win the mage's favor and perhaps receive a more manageable fighting schedule. Or, the assassin thought, that might just schedule him to fight Enrique next.

Entreri found the human fighter in the crowd, not surprisingly talking with Drizzt. The two of them were whispering amongst each other. Entreri wondered if he should cater to Drizzt's wants in this fight. The drow did not like to play with death. He would want this fight over as quickly as possible. And while Entreri appreciated efficiency as well, there were several factors to consider here.

Then the assassin spotted the sponsors. Raichik, the balor who had sent Entreri to this tournament, had been relatively absent since he had arrived. Now the demon was eager to see how his fighter stacked up to the rest. Likewise, too, the dwarf's sponsor, a smoldering stocky figure with an emotionless face (an azer, if Entreri could trust his memory of such things), had let his fighter be but now wished to see how he stacked up.

If it was a forgone conclusion that Entreri would win, as most present thought, someone forgot to tell the dwarf. Xorian did not charge wildly as many of his kin were known for. He had seen too many fighters fail with that strategy already in this tournament. But neither did the dwarf sit back and patiently wait for Entreri to attack. He walked in quickly, swinging his broad axe heads into a blurry steel shield.

Entreri sidestepped the fighter a few times, cautiously taking stock of his style. The axes were not twins. The right was doubled bladed, but the left had a blunted hammer opposite its cutting edge. Therefore, it was heavier and less agile, while the right axe was perfectly balanced and struck with more speed.

Xorian bided his time, waving his blades in front of him, making sure Entreri was not given an opening, and tensing his powerful legs for a lunge. The assassin beat him to it. Entreri struck first, not with an attack, but with a block, catching the underside of the right axe with his dirk. Xorian pulled hard on the block, and Entreri yielded, pirouetting with the parry and dropping into a crouch to stab the dirk low. This was belt-high for the dwarf, and with his right axe out wide, his left came in to bash the strike even lower. Entreri punched out above the block with his dagger.

As simple as it was, the move should have defeated just about anyone else. He had gotten the dwarf leaning in with one weapon out wide and one down low. The dagger was going straight for the dwarf's face. Xorian cocked his head back and then lunged forward to meet the thrust. Entreri was confused until the bearded face turned at the last second, and the dwarf bit at the human's hand.

Entreri pulled his hand back quickly, but not before the hungry dwarf had drawn blood. The assassin had no time to think about this odd defense before the right axe finally came back into play, aimed at Entreri's neck. Already in a crouch, he was forced to fall to his back.

The dwarf was over him quickly, but Entreri batted both attacks wide and kicked up between them with both heels. He caught the dwarf in the chest and chin, and despite the stocky fighter's bulk, he was now thrown to his back.

Both opponents were up quickly, and the next 30 seconds was a flurry of steal. Entreri's blocks tried mainly to deflect the onslaught, for the dwarf was far stronger than he was. His attacks were few and carefully aimed at the dwarf's hands and arms, forcing Xorian to adjust his stance to block them.

Entreri played with the idea of tricks and ruses to win this battle but decided against it. The dwarf was formidable, and it would be far more impressive to those watching (he was doing this for entertainment, after all) to beat him straight up.

Xorian was grunting already, not used to someone capable of absorbing the speed and power he was putting out. Entreri seemed to be blocking his attacks almost nonchalantly. Then the assassin picked up the pace. His blades began to intercept the attacking axes at the beginning of their swings before the dwarf could put any momentum behind them. His arms were being pushed back into his body, limiting his range of motion. He was forced to take a step back. Then Entreri exploded.

The transformation from defense to offense was so intense that Xorian knew if he could just attempt an attack, Entreri would be hopeless to defend against it. The only problem was that if the dwarf had done anything with his weapons other than waving them frantically in front of him, he would have been hit half a dozen times before he could even pick a place on the assassin to strike.

The dirk and dagger worked over each other, attacking the same spots from different angles, and the dwarf was constantly crossing himself up, the two axe heads banging into each other more often than not. The dirk went low toward Xorian's groin, and he sent his right axe down to block it. Then the dagger followed toward the opposite thigh, and the left axe came up to ward it off. Entreri pulled the attack short, though, as he watched the axes smack each other once again. He instead thrust the dagger high again.

Predictably, the dwarf tried to bite him, and predictably, Entreri did not fall for the same trick twice. He thrust out and then slashed back just as the dwarf's face was coming back in with his teeth bared. Entreri made him smile from ear to ear, literally.

Xorian screamed in pain but managed to hold on to his weapons, even getting them up to cover his vulnerable neck, as he threw his head back in pain. Entreri's dirk bounced off the blocking axes, but his dagger now went low into the dwarf's protruding belly.

The axes came down in a hurry as the dwarf straightened in pain. Entreri left the dagger in place, pulling his arm back just in time to keep it attached, and sent his dirk back on the mission from which it had just been foiled. The blade found the dwarf's exposed neck and bit in hard. This time Xorian did drop his axes. They landed gently on the dirt ground. Xorian fell next to them a moment later, somewhat less gently.

Enrique turned to Drizzt as the dwarf hit the dirt. "Standard fight?" He wished to know of Entreri's skill.

Drizzt shrugged. "I've only paid attention to that one when we fight each other. Then the fights last much longer, and the outcome usually has little to do with skill."

"And what do the outcomes depend on?" the champion asked.

"Motivation, desire, distractions, luck. It is not something I have given a great deal of thought to and not something I wish to repeat soon."

"Ah," Enrique smiled, "but you will repeat it, won't you?" Drizzt turned to look at him. He continued. "Our host is not blind to natural rivalries, and unless you see someone that can beat Entreri or beat you before you two meet, I would say that we will get to see the outcome. Maybe this time, it will be decided by skill." Enrique looked around at the assembled fighters and frowned. "Though I would care to wager few of us will be left to see it."

There was to be one more fight before Deltrophan ended the first round. Five fighters had still not stepped into the ring, meaning three would not fight until later. Sir Toreance Willhiem was not one of the three. He stepped up proudly into the ring, one of the few fighters decked out in full armor. He opted out of wearing a helm, though, not wanting to obscure his vision and wanting his golden hair to fly freely as he fought. He was very concerned about his image. His opponent was not.

Gunthor, under the complete control of Styne, stepped up into the ring and assumed his ready stance. Styne watched while leaning against the cave wall, directly below Deltrophan's viewing plateau, essentially out of sight from the powerful mage. He was worried about this fight. He had been hoping for the ogre, thinking Deltrophan would have pitted the two largest fighters against each other. But Druia had disposed of the ogre. The problem was that this knight was too nimble. And while Styne knew that fighting Entreri or Enrique would prove equally challenging, those fighters were also much smaller and would have an equally hard time injuring Gunthor.

Styne was also worried about the Thunder Blade. It was easily the largest weapon at the tournament. Each of these fighters had spent their entire lives perfecting their styles and equipment. Their weapons had been stolen from dragon's treasures, recovered from ancient tombs, or forged by the best craftsmen in the realms. Styne had not had that luxury. He had hired a blacksmith to build Gunthor's axe and then had a priest of Tempest place a blessing on it. He only hoped it would stand up.

Against Drizzt's scimitars or Enrique's nunchaku, the axe would have, but the Thunder Blade was another story.

Styne put Gunthor through a slight warm-up routine, much more for the mage than the golem. Toreance appreciated the display from a distance as Gunthor twirled the two-handed axe in front, under an arm, around his back, and over his head. The knight finally pulled his sword and did the same. This brought a few nervous gulps from several fighters who now prayed for the knight's defeat.

The two walked toward each other and engaged. Styne wasted no time launching his attack. Gunthor swung the axe around his back and over his right shoulder to gain momentum and then brought it crashing in from the right. The blow could have felled any tree on the island. Toreance took a step back to save his legs and swung his own weapon to meet the attack, angling his blade at the last second, so it caught the shaft of the weapon, just under the axe-head.

The shaft sheared in two. The head went flying toward the edge of the ring with such force that the whole magical dome shuddered under the impact. Styne regretted not having practiced a dumb-founded expression for his golem, for he needed one now.

Toreance had practiced an over-confident gloating look. So had his sponsor. Lady Alustriel had found a battle-hungry avenger archon named Balrieth to sponsor the barbarian knight. The archon glowered toward Errtu, and the tanar'ri had no adequate response. He wanted to, in turn, glower at Styne, but he knew he shouldn't. He actually wanted to eat Styne but held his anger in check . . . for now.

Back in the ring, Styne was quickly inventing dodging moves, something else he had not practiced. He never assumed he would be without a weapon. As large as he was, Gunthor proved to be very nimble, and Styne thanked Garem repeatedly as the Thunder Blade whisked just over the golem's head or just in front of his chest.

Styne did realize, though, that he couldn't dodge forever, just hoping that Toreance would tire. Plus, the paladin was not using any technique in his attacks, not thinking he needed any against an unarmed opponent. Soon, he would stop wildly hacking, and Gunthor would not be able to dodge organized attacks.

The battlemage decided to change strategies first. Styne had Gunthor back up again as if he were dodging. Toreance compensated by stepping further into his swing to increase the arc. Gunthor instead stepped closer, swinging his arm up under the swipe, the heel of his palm driving into the flat of the blade. The Thunder Blade rotated under the impact, such that the flat of the sword now collided with Gunthor's upper arm.

A small line of blood came from Gunthor's arm, an effect that Styne had added at the last minute before coming to the tournament, but it was not a severe injury. Though Gunthor had stepped inside the swing of the massive weapon, he was still four feet from Toreance. Before the colossal golem could get within arm’s length, the knight started to step back. Gunthor didn't let him. He grabbed onto the blade.

Toreance was wearing gauntlets of heavy lifting, allowing him to heft his sword around with ease. He could lift close to a thousand pounds with those gloves. He should have been able to wrestle it away from Gunthor. He couldn't. His first problem was that he pulled straight ahead, thinking he could slice off a few fingers in the process. The gloves didn't help him then because they only aided against gravity. Gunthor held tight. The golem had both hands on the blade now, the fake blood slowly dripping from his grip, not in any way lubricating his hold. If anything, the deeper the edge dug into his hands, the tighter he held on.

Toreance tried to lift instead. Now the gloves helped, but it was still a futile effort. The blade weighed close to 200 pounds, and Gunthor weighed 400, but the leverage was all wrong with all of the golem's weight on the end of the blade.

Now Gunthor began to pull. Styne had practiced an evil grin for his magical fighter, and as Toreance tried to brace the heels of his boots against the dirt arena floor, a sickening smile spread over Gunthor's face. Toreance refused to let go of his prized weapon. He tried to swing it back and forth. He tried to twist it around, but it was like trying to wrestle a nail head out of the wall with your fingers. Gunthor began to real him in.

Hand over hand, like he was pulling in a fishing net, the golem dragged the stubborn knight toward his doom. Toreance tried to time his jerks on the sword when Gunthor only had one hand on the blade, but the golem's strength depended not on muscles but magic. The magic could work just as well through one hand as it could two.

Soon the two were face to face, about a foot apart. Gunthor had one hand on the blade, just above the hilt, while Toreance still tugged desperately on the pommel. Soon he stopped struggling and looked up into the face of his opponent. Gunthor's smile grew bigger, and he punched the knight in the head with his free hand.

To Toreance's credit, he didn't fall. His grip on his sword, though, to say nothing of his own name, was completely forgotten as he stumbled backward. As Enrique looked on, he thought he could actually see little canaries flying around the stunned knight's head.

Gunthor, meanwhile, slowly turned his new weapon around and gripped the pommel instead. He raised the sword over his right shoulder and paused a moment to regard the stupefied paladin. It almost looked like the golem shrugged his shoulders in indifference and then swung. A moment later, Sir Toreance Willhiem was half as tall as he had been when he had stepped into the ring.

Drizzt and Entreri both turned to Enrique simultaneously with the same question on their minds. Enrique knew what it was and spoke up before they could ask. "It was perfectly legal." He pulled out the dagger he had used in his fight. "I got this off someone I beat in the last tournament. The best blade I've ever had."

Styne knew the rules as well. He had Gunthor bend over the dead paladin and removed the sheath from his back, strapping it onto his own. Styne regarded the gauntlets the knight wore, sensing clearly that they were how he had been able to wield the blade but decided against it. It would be nice for keeping up appearances, but the gloves wouldn't work for the golem. They wouldn't fit either.

Deltrophan stood from his chair, satisfied with the tournament so far. He didn't like the brutish style fighter, but he also saw in Gunthor an unbeatable foe, and it would be interesting to see how the rest of the combatants would deal with him.

"Those of you who have survived the first round, congratulations," the mage said, pausing only momentarily to make sure he had everyone's attention. "Those of you who did not fight, don't worry; you will get your chance if you still have the stomach for it. You may do whatever you like between now and the next round. The next round will begin precisely at sunset." With a silly grin on his face, Deltrophan stepped through a magical doorway and disappeared.

"How are you going to beat him?"

The question had been on Entreri's mind ever since he had watched Toreance cleaved in two. Gunthor was as graceful as anyone, and now with the Thunder Blade, he didn't know how anyone could get close enough to him to inflict any damage, not that a weapon could.

"I asked you a question, assassin."

Entreri turned to the speaker with venom in his eyes but kept his tongue in check. He was laughed at. Raichik did not fit well into Entreri's room, for the human did not warrant a large space as Gunthor did, but he managed. "You cannot beat him. Admit it."

"Then why didn't you ask him to come here for you instead of me?" Entreri responded finally. "You picked me from all the fighters in the realm because you knew of my skill. You know I have beaten larger adversaries in the past. I will deal successfully with this one when the time comes."

Entreri turned away from the balor and moved to his door; the balor followed. "You do not even believe what you are saying. You know you cannot beat him."

Entreri stopped short, and the balor almost ran into him. The assassin turned, trying not to be unnerved by the hideous creature so close to him. "Is this your idea of a pep talk? Let me handle the fighting. You just do . . . whatever it is you do."

He turned again and opened the door. Drizzt was outside, leaning casually against the opposite wall of the corridor. "Consulting with your demon after a successful kill?" Drizzt asked, giving a full indication of the mood he was in.

Entreri did not feel like he needed to justify his position with his most hated rival, but he did anyway. "You know how this tournament works; I have no affiliation with this beast. I care not what happens to him after I am done here."

Raichik was too big to fit through the normal-sized doorway in which Entreri stood but stooped low enough to look over Entreri's shoulder. "Leave us drow."

"Would you like me to kill him?" Drizzt asked, his fingers playing with the hilt of Icingdeath, his frost scimitar.

"Please," Raichik responded sarcastically. "You would not risk the wrath of Deltrophan; you heard what he said about interaction between fighters and competing sponsors."

"He would not kill me," Drizzt replied. "I have not fought yet."

"You cannot even enter this room," Raichik growled back. He stood, and Drizzt could no longer see his face. "You mortals care nothing about rules. As one banished from the physical realm, I must live with them always." Though the drow could not see his face, he watched as Raichik's claws gestured as he talked. He obviously had strong opinions on this subject. "You petty fighters think you are indestructible and can just kill anything that walks. It doesn't work that-"

Entreri and Drizzt made eye contact. Though there were no similarities between them other than their skill with a blade, they often shared common desires. That desire was communicated perfectly through a look. Entreri locked eyes with the drow and then glanced down at Icingdeath.

With Raichik standing, he could not see what Drizzt did. The drow unsheathed his scimitar and tossed it across the hall. Entreri caught it and stabbed back and up.

"-way at all. You need to understand that the forces at work here are not-" His litany finally ceased as the frost blade sunk deep into his chest. He tried to scream, but the numbing sensation was too much, the air in his lungs frosting over. He tried to pull away, but Entreri quickly jabbed his dagger into the balor's thigh, creating an energy feedback loop that crackled as it sucked the life from the demon. Raichik didn't even manage to get a curse out as he fell backward, crashing into Entreri's furniture, dead before the broken wood settled.

Drizzt walked up to the door and leaned against the magical barrier. "Nice work, I must say."

"I rather liked it," Entreri agreed, walking over to his dead sponsor and pulling the blade free. "Not a bad weapon either."

"Yes," Drizzt agreed, catching it as Entreri tossed it back. "I rather like it."

They both looked at the dead balor. Its usually red skin was frosty blue. "I suppose there is going to be hell to pay for this," Entreri said.

Drizzt nodded. "Let's just hope not literally."

Deltrophan stood in front of his mirror, bare to the waist and flexing. His arms were toothpicks and his chest a hallow cavity, but he tried to puff it up as much as possible as he held an imaginary sword. "And now I shall cut you in half . . . punk." He went through a swinging motion and then stopped as he saw Yeltriz's reflection in the mirror, hovering behind him.

The mage quickly dropped his charade and cleared his throat. "You should learn to knock first," he said as he reached for his robe.

"On what, master?"

Deltrophan started to motion with his hand but stopped. "How many times have we had this conversation?"

The imp pulled out a parchment and looked it over. "Two hundred seventy-three thousand four hundred six," he said after a few moments.

"And how many times have I asked you how many times we have had this conversation?"

Yeltriz looked a bit further. "Eighty-nine thousand nine hundred twenty-nine times."

The mage sighed. "So why do you still pop in on me?"

Yeltriz shrugged his shoulders. "I am an imp, master. It is my nature to be annoying."

"And how many times have you told me that?"

A little further on the parchment. "Sixteen thousand eighty-one."

Deltrophan tied his robe and sat in his chair. "So, what do you have to tell me?"

"We have a problem."

Drizzt and Entreri stood before the mage, their arms held casually away from their weapons. Deltrophan sat on the throne-like chair in his study. He regarded the two fighters carefully. He already knew, no matter how they answered his questions, that he wasn't going to kill them. The fighters he punished either had to break a golden rule or not have much potential for entertainment. These two, along with Enrique, were probably the best fighters at the tournament, and he wasn't going to get rid of them. But he couldn't let them know that.

"So, you killed your sponsor?" he finally asked.

Entreri bowed slightly. "Yes. He was annoying me, and you said we could interact with our own sponsors in any way we chose."

Deltrophan wished Yeltriz was there to hear what some people did to annoying demons, but he had sent the imp out to watch the rest of the fighters. He turned to Drizzt. "But he used your weapon?"

Drizzt nodded. "I gave him the weapon, but I did not know what he intended to do with it. I merely thought he was interested in the design."

"Do you have any idea how good I am at detecting lies?" the mage questioned.

Drizzt bowed in apology. "Likely much better than I am at telling them, your magnificence."

Deltrophan stood from his chair. "You two are treating this like it is a joke, aren't you?"

Drizzt and Entreri looked at each other briefly before responding in unison. "Yes."

For being the most powerful human alive, Deltrophan didn't get much respect. "I have become too predictable in my old age," he muttered to himself. "I'm not going to punish you, other than one of you will die in this tournament. But you both knew that when you walked into this room. If you should win," he looked at Entreri, "the sponsor of the fighter you defeat in your final battle will receive the honor Raichik can no longer have."

"You have judged wisely and fairly," Entreri replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Get out of my sight," the mage commanded, and the two fighters complied. "I hope Enrique kills them both," he said once they were gone.

When Drizzt and Entreri walked into the tavern, five fighters were inside. Every remaining contestant was represented except Gunthor and Lynn Shallarock. Druia and Enrique were sitting at the same table. The two remaining elves, Adenae and Yelthium, sat together, and the black knight, Roland Rexedia, sat alone. As far as anyone knew, the black-clad warrior had not yet said a word to anyone. He, Drizzt, and the vampire were the three fighters not chosen to fight in the first round, so there must be something special about him, but no one knew.

Drizzt and Entreri each ordered an ale and sat with Druia and Enrique. "You're a little late," Druia pointed out, seeing something secretive in the two rivals' eyes.

"Maybe you are just early?" Drizzt responded with a smile, not about to give anything away.

Druia looked around at the rest of the tavern population. "Then we are all early. Or maybe we should take a vote."

"Would you two quit your babbling," Enrique finally said. "Some of us would rather listen to something else."

They all turned to see what the human was talking about. A small stage sat in the tavern corner, and a woman was walking up the short steps. She was dressed in a loose gown, her figure a mystery. Her face was angular and elegant, her eyes green. There was nothing that drew your attention toward her, but somehow, once it got there, it stayed.

Her name was Arvarian. Enrique had asked about her during the first dinner they had together. She sat down on a stool, and as the wooden leg made a slight scraping noise, the other three fighters who had not noticed her suddenly turned to look. Even Roland picked his head up out of his ale and paid attention.

Her voice was like an angel. She had no accompaniment, and her audience was glad, for it let her voice ring clear and unhindered. The seven fighters in the room were there to kill each other, but somehow all that disappeared as they listened to her words of love and loss.

"Through the valleys and hills,

His ties he will sever,

Through his sickness and ills,

He will wander forever.

"All in search of a name,

Fighting for lost belief,

Seeking fortune and fame,

He will find no relief."

"Through toil and trouble,

Without hope from above,

His foes left in rubble,

He will never find love."

Every fighter present felt like she was singing directly to them. "He will wander forever. He will find no relief. He will never find love." How many of their lives could be summed up that way? Even Drizzt, whose efforts over his life could be considered the noblest of those present, wondered if his life suddenly had any point. How many ties had he severed? How many beliefs had he lost? What sort of hope did he really have? Was he making a difference?

"He is weathered and pale,

Turning flesh to a husk,

Winds of fate fill his sail

Finding the shores of dusk.

"Only after the fight,

Will the agony cease.

When the day turns to night,

And he falls to his knees,

When his pride takes to flight,

And his boasts turn to, 'Please,'

All his wrongs become right,

Then he truly finds peace."

The last verse hung in the air. Her melodious voice continued wordlessly with the song, for nothing else needed to be said. The rise and fall of her pitch seemed to shake the sturdiest spine in the room. Tears that could later be denied splashed into drinks, symbolically drowning their grief in alcohol, for the sobriety spell in place did not allow them to do likewise.

Arvarian continued wordlessly with her melody for several minutes, though it felt much longer on this eternal island. She stood when she was finished, for there could be no encore to her performance that would have any more impact than what she had already made.

No one spoke for an hour. And then, no one continued to speak. Drizzt looked to Enrique, realizing why he had asked about this singer. If the title of that song was not "The Ballad of the Immortal Fighter," then it was improperly named. Drizzt did not so much sympathize with what this fighter had gone through in his last two and a half centuries but wondered instead what was in store for him.

Surface elves did not live their lives in battle. They relaxed in their woodland homes, seeking enlightenment and finding love. They went on crusades, but with 800 years of life ahead of them, they could not afford to fill it all with bloodshed. What was Drizzt to do with his life, assuming he made it off this island with it intact?

While no one else in the room (the other two elves were already past middle age) had that type of natural life ahead of them, they all had the potential for eternal life, and now they wondered if they really wanted it. The true beauty of a sunset is that there would be another just like it the next day. The true horror of a battle is that there would be a thousand more just like it the next day or week or month.

Everyone left the tavern quietly, retiring to their rooms and preparing for the next round.