He aimed center mass on the dwarf, but perhaps in deference to King Bruenor—or Thibble dorf, or Dagnabbit, or any of the other noble and fierce dwarves he had known those decades before, he lowered his angle and let fly. Like a bolt of lightning, the magical arrow slashed the air and drove through the fleshy part of the dwarf’s thigh. The poor dwarf screamed and veered then fell down.

Drizzt notched another arrow and turned the bow until he had the human, whose longer legs had taken him even farther away, in his sight. He took aim and drew back steadily, but held his shot as he saw the man jerk suddenly then stagger.

He stood there for just a moment before falling over, and Drizzt knew by the way he tumbled that he was dead before he ever hit the ground.

The drow glanced back over his shoulder, to see the three wounded dwarves struggling, but defeated, and the elf wizard still pinned by the ferocious Guenhwyvar. Every time the poor elf moved, Guenhwyvar smothered his face under a huge paw.

By the time Drizzt looked back, the killers of the human were in view. A pair of elves moved to gather the arrow-shot dwarf, while another went to the dead man, and another pair approached Drizzt, one riding on a white-winged steed, the pegasus named Sunrise. Bells adorned the mount’s harness, bridle, and saddle, tinkling sweetly—ironically so—as the riders trotted up to the drow.

“Lord Hralien,” Drizzt greeted with a bow.

“Well met and well done, my friend,” said the elf who ruled the ancient expanse of the Glimmerwood that the elves still called the Moon-wood. He looked around, nodding with approval. “The Night Riders have been dealt yet one more serious blow,” he said, using another of the names for the orc-killing vigilantes, as did all the elves, refusing to assign a title as honorable as Casin Cu Calas to a band they so abhorred.