From the far side of the bridge, the Twisted Elm stood perhaps a half hour or so up the road. Ordinarily, Cale would have been able to see it from the bridge, but the rain and darkness made visibility poor. They stalked down the muddy road. The eighth hour approached.

"Near enough," Cale said. "Let's prepare."

He took out his holy symbol, traced an invisible symbol in the air before him, and recited a prayer that would ward him against fire. He cast the same ward on Jak, but when he turned to Riven, the assassin held up a hand.

"Save it, Cale."

Cale shook his head and insisted, "Take it. To the Hells with your professional pride. This is about getting the work done. Remember the fireball Vraggen used at the Stag?"

Riven hesitated.

"This will ward you against fire," Cale said. He hesitated before adding, "It is a blessing from Mask."

That last seemed to help convince the assassin.

Riven nodded once and accepted the spell without another word. When Cale finished the incantation, Riven pulled his holy symbol out from beneath his cloak and wore it openly.

Still holding his mask, Cale continued his prayers, asking the Lord of Shadows to bless their efforts in the battle to come.

Jak too began to pray and cast: a ward against divinations and the half-drow's mind-reading on each of them, a ward against detection on the half-sphere, a spell to protect each of them against lightning, and finally, a request for the Trickster's own good fortune in the battle to come.

Afterward, the halfling looked up at Cale and said, "It's as good a plan as any, Cale, but there's no guarantee that they won't see me, even invisible. A powerful caster may be able to penetrate my non-detection ward. And I still haven't figured out how the half-drow saw me back in the alley."

"There's never any guarantees when steel is drawn, Fleet," Riven said as he ran a thumb along each of his blade edges in turn. "Not ever."

Cale looked the halfling in the eyes and tried to communicate an assurance he didn't feel.

"They won't see you," Cale said. "Not this time."

To that, Jak said nothing, but Cale could see he was still bothered. Cale kneeled down and looked him in the face.

"You all right with this?" Cale asked. "What you have to do?"

The plan required an invisible Jak to take down an unsuspecting target.

Jak looked sidelong at Riven before answering, "I'm all right."

Cale held his gaze. "Little man, these whoresons killed nine guards when they attacked Stormweather, and they tried to kill me."

"And me," Riven said, though Cale doubted that helped convince Jak.

"The gods only know what they've done to Ren," Cale continued. "They deserve worse than a sword in their back. They need to be put down, and pity should not cause you to hesitate even a heartbeat. Understood?"

Jak nodded—slowly, but Cale saw conviction in his green eyes.

Riven spit and sneered, "You're wasting words, Cale. We already know Fleet doesn't have any qualms about sticking steel in a man's back. Do you, little man?"

They all knew the assassin was referencing that night when an invisible Jak had driven a short sword through Riven's kidney.

"Keep your mouth shut, Riven," Cale spat over his shoulder.

Jak eyes narrowed but he laughed without mirth.

"No, he's right, Cale," the halfling said. "I won't hesitate to put a blade in a back. In the backs of certain men, at least." The halfling stared meaningfully at Riven. "I haven't yet done it and regretted it. I haven't yet stuck someone who didn't deserve exactly what he got."

Riven's sneer deepened. He shot Jak an unfriendly wink.

Jak spat in Riven's direction before turning back to Cale.

"I'm ready," he said.

Cale smiled, thumped him on the shoulder, and said, "Then let's do this."

He reached into his belt pouch, removed his potion of flight, and handed it to Jak.

Before drinking it down, the halfling incanted the words to another prayer. When he finished, his body and gear faded from sight. Even the falling rain didn't reveal his location.

"Our priority is Ren," Cale said. "After that..."

"Anything goes," Riven said, unsmiling.

From somewhere in the air above them—the potion must already have taken effect—Jak's disembodied voice said, "My spell and the potion will only last a limited time. We ought to hurry."

With deliberation, Cale put on the velvet mask that served as his holy symbol and drew his blade.

"Let's move," he said to Riven.

Before they had taken three strides, Jak's voice sounded from just behind Riven, "Watch your back, Zhent. Never know if someone's about to stick it."

Riven's one eye narrowed in anger and he muttered a soft curse. Cale couldn't help but smile.

Jak hovered a dagger toss above Cale and Riven. He experimented a bit to get accustomed to the flight granted him by the potion. Thought controlled movement. If he willed himself forward, he flew forward; if he willed himself up or down, he moved up or down. And he could hover. The sensation felt. . . fun, and he would have enjoyed it if the situation had not been so dire. He drew his short sword and dagger.

"Space yourselves," Cale said from below, his voice muffled by the mask he wore.

Jak nodded. It would not do for all of them to be caught by surprise in one of Vraggen's spells. He distanced himself from his comrades, eight or nine paces ahead and a dagger toss above. Riven and Cale walked abreast, but fully five strides apart.

Cale held his long sword in one hand and the half-sphere in the other. Jak thought his friend looked sinister in the mask. He wondered why Cale had donned it.

Riven stalked down the road on Cale's left, a magical saber in each hand. To Jak, the Zhent always looked dangerous. Working with Riven reminded Jak of something his father had said when Jak had brought a stray dog back to the burrow: We can't keep it because it's feral, and you never know when a feral animal will turn on you. You just always know it will.

In truth, the thought of putting his blade in Riven's back tempted him, but only for an instant. He would kill when necessary and deserved, but he was not a murderer.

In moments, though, he would come as close to murder as he cared to.

But they deserve it, he told himself, and he clutched his holy symbol. Cale had said as much and Jak believed it.

From below and behind, Cale said, "We go when you go, little man. Unless they force us to go sooner."

"I hear you," Jak said.

When Jak attacked, all of the Nine Hells would break loose.

"And don't dally, Fleet," Riven growled.

"Piss off," Jak said, but was not sure the Zhent heard him.

They continued up the road. Jak considered scouting ahead, but decided against it—he couldn't be sure that Vraggen and Azriim wouldn't see through his invisibility, and he didn't want to prematurely alert them. Instead, he stayed in position above Cale and Riven. The rain continued, soaking the ground. Soon blood would join it.

A long bowshot ahead, the Twisted Elm materialized out of the dusk. The huge, magisterial tree could not be missed. It dominated the otherwise flat plain. Its canopy was wide enough to shade a hamlet. Lines in the bark of its trunk spiraled up the bole in an unusual pattern that gave the tree its name. It looked like the threads of a giant carpenter's screw, as though a god had reached down from the heavens and twisted the tree as it grew.

Below those stately eaves, Jak saw four figures. He could not make out features, but from their respective clothing, size, and bare weapons, Jak marked them as Vraggen, Dolgan, the easterner, and a woman. Probably the woman who had led the attack on Stormweather Towers. Behind them, perhaps ten strides farther up the road, stood two other figures: one bound and standing perfectly upright and rigid—an enspelled Ren, Jak figured—with the other, Azriim no doubt, guarding him with a bare long sword.