Starlight Enclave

by R. A. Salvatore

  Zak snorted. “You would have a hard time convincing the matrons of Menzoberranzan of that, I fear.”

  “Do you think the dwarves would ever rise up against King Bruenor?” Entreri finished the conversation as Jarlaxle arrived, and Zaknafein knew it to be a rhetorical question anyway, or at least one with an obvious answer.

  “I’m losing my voice from so much talking and assurances,” Jarlaxle said. “Do you think, perhaps, that either of you might muster the strength to walk the deck and coax the crew?”

  “I could, but I don’t want to,” Zak replied.

  “You bluff, Jarlaxle,” Entreri added. “Both of us know you well enough to know that the one thing you could never lose is your voice.”

  That brought a smile to Jarlaxle’s face, and he bowed in surrender and swept his arm gracefully. Entreri noted that Jarlaxle was wearing a couple of rings that he had seen on the hand of Captain Arrongo—and not the hand Zaknafein had severed and left on the deck.

  He looked from the rings to Jarlaxle’s waiting and knowing smile.

  “I took what I could find,” the drow rogue explained. “Fortunately, the giant shark was no longer hungry, but less fortunately, it is almost certain that greater treasures were among the contents of its belly.”

  “You disappoint me,” Zak told him. “I would have thought you the type to follow the beastly shark until it shat out the rest of Arrongo.”

  “It was a thought,” Jarlaxle replied, walking away.

  Zak looked to Entreri, who could only shrug and admit, “I didn’t even see him get wet.”

  Soon after, the lookout called down, “Land!” and as the sun set behind Pelican, it shone past them to the tips of tall, snow-covered mountains far ahead and to the left, and when it went into hiding behind the sea, the stars came twinkling to life above them, and so too did the lights of Luskan sparkle, far away and straight ahead.

  “Have you discovered more?” Jarlaxle asked Catti-brie a few days later in Gauntlgrym.

  “I believe that I know as much about the whip as I’ll ever learn,” she replied. “I have spoken with great wizards, even creatures of other planes—even with Maegera, to a degree, if our communions can be considered a dialogue.” She shrugged and admitted, “Though I’m not sure how much of the full story or power that may be, nor even where fact ends and supposition begins.”

  “But you’re comfortable with the attempt?”

  The woman shrugged again. “I have little idea of how the flames of the primordial will treat the weapons, though I am more confident now that Maegera will not be able to use the powers of the whip to somehow escape its chasm. The only loss I foresee would be that of the whip and whatever else we feed to the Great Forge.”

  “Splendid!” Jarlaxle said, and clapped his hands, then reached toward his left hip.

  Catti-brie fully took note of the sword hanging there for the first time, and though the pommel was different, she surely recognized the hilt and cross-guard. She gasped and grabbed Jarlaxle by the forearm.

  “No. Never.”

  Jarlaxle turned a perplexed look her way.

  “I will not add magic to that sword,” she explained. “Never. I’ll not feed it into the Great Forge, but I would gladly, no payment needed, throw it into the primordial chasm to be destroyed, or otherwise removed from the hands of its next victim.”

  “Ah, you recognize Khazid’hea,” Jarlaxle replied.

  “And our conversation is at an end,” she said, and started away.

  “No, lady, no,” Jarlaxle said, stopping her before she had fully turned from him. “I do not wish you to feed Khazid’hea in with the whip. The sword is magnificent on its own, of course.”

  “You’re a fool for even wielding it.”

  “I carry it,” Jarlaxle told her. “Sheathed. I do not wield it.”

  “Destroy it, then, and make the world a better place.”

  “It is a powerful tool, and in the right hands—”

  Her narrow-eyed look stopped him for a moment, but only a moment. “Khazid’hea allowed Drizzt to fight Obould to a draw,” he reminded her. “It is just a sword.”

  “I know all about that . . . sword.”

  “You do, and my apologies for bringing it here this day,” the drow said with a bow. “But I repeat: it is not Khazid’hea I wish you to feed to the forge beside the whip.” He reached to his hip again, but under Khazid’hea, bringing forth a beautiful small sculpture of a yellow-and-orange fiery bird, which she recognized as a phoenix. After a moment, she realized that it was more than a sculpture; it was a long sword hilt, but one missing a blade. The wings of the bird were out to its sides, serving as a cross guard, and with the outer feathers bending back toward the pommel to form a solid guard. The long neck snaked up higher, and Catti-brie thought that it was blocking the butt to which a blade might be attached.

  But no, she realized, there was no attachment prong, nor a hollow into which a blade might be fed and secured.

  She looked at the tiny rubies that served as eyes for the bird, and a third, larger red gem, set in the pommel, which seemed to be formed of the bird’s tail feathers curled up into a ball.

  “That?” she asked. “Why that? The whip has a handle.”

  “And the hilt has a blade,” Jarlaxle explained, and he lifted it and tightened his grip. The three rubies flared with inner magic and the blade of light suddenly appeared, accompanied by a momentary low hum.

  “A sun blade,” Catti-brie said. “I have heard of this. It is said to be a marvelous weapon.”

  “It is indeed, and one worthy of all but the greatest of warriors. We— well, Zaknafein took it from Captain Arrongo and is anxious for it back. But I promised him that I would return to him something even more wondrous than Arrongo’s sword alone.”

  “You wish to risk that prize in the primordial’s fires?” she asked, her doubts showing.

  “I wish to make this weapon worthy of the greatest of warriors,” Jarlaxle reminded her. He rolled his wrist as he dismissed the blade of light, then handed the phoenix pommel over to Catti-brie.

  She took it and held it out before her gingerly for a while, staring blankly, trying to let it all properly register.

  “Do it, I beg,” Jarlaxle pleaded. “I believe this will complement well the whip of flames.”

  “Just give this to Zaknafein along with the whip,” Catti-brie suggested. “He will be as powerfully armed as almost any warrior along the Sword Coast.”

  “I seek more than that. I wish it to be truly worthy of Zak. Do it.”

  “And if the result disappoints?”

  “Then I have an excuse to find another adventure to replace what I have lost.”

  “You’ll not find another whip like this,” she warned.

  “It is marvelous, but situational,” Jarlaxle answered. “And next to useless when an enemy is close.”

  “Then Zak uses the sun blade.”

  “I wish him to have more options.”

  “You risk a lot.”

  “I like to bet,” he said, and held his hand out toward the door that led toward the forge room of Gauntlgrym. “But there’s a difference between gambling and taking a risk. I rarely gamble.”

  Catti-brie took up the whip in one hand, the phoenix hilt in the other, and paused, but only for a moment. She shrugged and started off, glad that Jarlaxle was behind her, for she didn’t want him to see that she was truly intrigued.

  They said nothing until they got to the Great Forge. The forge room was mostly empty at that late hour, though one fellow worked at a small oven across the way, hammering at some tool.

  Catti-brie fast approached and unintentionally startled him when she called to him, so much so that he nearly dropped his tongs and the hot metal he held with them.

  “Aye, Princess!” he replied, setting down his instruments and pulling off his protective mask. “What might I be doing for ye?”

  “Festus, yes?” Catti-brie asked, recognizing the dwarf as one of the Adbar boys
who had stayed on after the retaking of Gauntlgrym.

  “Aye, Festus Grymforge at yer service,” he said with a bow.

  Catti-brie looked at him curiously, trying to place the name. “I’m not for knowing Clan Grymforge,” she admitted.

  “Was O’Maul, lady,” he explained. “O’ the Adbar O’Mauls.”

  “Ambergris,” Jarlaxle said.

  “Fourth cousin,” Festus said.

  “Then why Grymforge?” asked Catti-brie.

  “New clan under Battlehammer,” Festus announced. “More and more joining. Ragged Dain started it, with the queens’ own sister, Hannabritches Fellhammer. Aye, she and Ragged Dain’ll be taking Grymforge as their clan name when they marry later in the year. And they’ll have a fine clan around them, what. Boys from Felbarr and Adbar, from Mirabar, too.”

  “Just boys?” Jarlaxle quipped. “Sounds like a short-lived clan.”

  “Every dwarf is called that,” Catti-brie replied. “Always their ‘boys.’ And that’s meaning all o’ them. It’s a term of endearment and camaraderie, nothing more.

  “Grymforge,” she repeated, looking back at Festus. “I like it. Like the new Grymguard. Seems fitting.”

  “Aye, that’s what we were thinkin’.”

  “Ye chose well,” Catti-brie said. “Might I ask ye the favor of firing up the oven of the Great Forge, Festus Grymforge?”

  The dwarf looked at her curiously. “Are ye doin’ it again?” he whispered after glancing all around to make sure they were alone.

  Catti-brie knew what he meant, for the whispering hadn’t stopped since she had combined Twinkle and Vidrinath, and combined Bruenor’s shield with Orbbcress, and her bow Taulmaril with the marvelous buckle that magically concealed weapons.

  “Fire the forge and ye’ll see,” Catti-brie promised.

  It didn’t take long before the oven of the Great Forge blazed white-hot. They didn’t have to feed it wood or coal or anything else, of course. All that they were doing was opening the appropriate valves enough to let the primordial send forth a furious tendril of flame. The ovens were the real engineering and magical marvels here, strong and secure, with countering enchantments to prevent the beast’s escape—and the largest and most impressive of all was that of the Great Forge. A wizard or priest detecting magic on it would be blinded as surely as if they stared into the white-hot flame within.

  “You are sure?” Catti-brie asked one last time when she stood beside Jarlaxle at the feed to the oven.

  Jarlaxle nodded and the woman lifted the beautiful hilt, examining its magic with her spells, and then the bullwhip, which she had already studied intently.

  “Is it all up to the oven?” Jarlaxle asked.

  Catti-brie shook her head, but was too deep in her thoughts to break them by answering aloud. She put the whip on the tray. She cast a spell of protection upon herself, bade Jarlaxle and Festus to back up, then opened the oven gate.

  She started to push the whip in closer, but even with her protective enchantment, the heat was too much for her. She turned to Festus and pointed and the dwarf tossed her his gloves. She donned them and took up long-handled tongs.

  In went the whip, the flames roiling about it almost hungrily, then dancing about it as if joyously, as if they had found a long-lost cousin. The whip itself shed wisps of smoke in the heat, and threw shots of its own flame to dance with the primordial tendril.

  “That doesn’t look good,” Jarlaxle remarked, but Catti-brie held up her hand to silence the drow, urging patience.

  She lifted the blade of light, admiring the beautiful phoenix hilt and hoping that this artwork would not be melted to an ugly lump. She put it on the tray, but picked it back up immediately on a notion, and called forth its blade.

  “Well, lookie there,” she heard Festus say.

  Onto the tray it went, and Catti-brie grabbed it with the tongs and placed it into the oven beside the whip. Then she shut the grate and began to chant, calling through her magical ring to Maegera, asking the primordial to reveal its beautiful power of creation once more.

  “Open the valves wider,” she bade Festus.

  “Lady,” he said slowly and with obvious concern.

  “Do it. It is okay.”

  It went on for a long while before Catti-brie at last bade Festus to shut down the oven.

  When she opened the grate, she saw only the small flame that never extinguished within, and it was dancing mesmerizingly, as if telling her to go ahead and remove the items and witness again the beauty and power of Maegera.

  Catti-brie swallowed hard. The whip was gone, the blade of light was closed, but the phoenix hilt remained, apparently unscathed.

  She pulled it forth and lifted it. Feeling no heat, she removed a glove and gingerly brought her bare hand close, then grasped it and closed her eyes.

  A smile spread upon her face, and she nodded approvingly, then turned to Jarlaxle.

  “I think you’ll be pleased,” she said, and tossed him the hilt.

  He, too, closed his eyes, and Catti-brie knew that the new weapon was revealing to him its powers, as it had just done to her.

  “Very,” Jarlaxle said a moment later, his eyes widening. “And so will the wielder.”

  “Ye goin’ to tell me, then?” Festus asked. “What happened to that whip?”

  “It’s in there.”

  Festus leaned over and looked curiously into the open oven.

  “Not in there, in the hilt,” Catti-brie explained.

  “Huh?”

  “Do yourself a favor, friend,” Catti-brie said. “Do not ever anger Zaknafein to the point of battle.”

  “Ne’er occurred to me,” the dwarf assured her.

  “Would you leave us, good dwarf?” Jarlaxle then asked.

  “Aye, but not for long, I’ve plenty the work to do.”

  “It won’t take long,” Jarlaxle promised.

  Festus bobbed his head and scurried along. He was barely out of the room when Jarlaxle again drew Khazid’hea.

  “I already told you,” Catti-brie scolded, “I’ll not put that infernal blade into the Great Forge.”

  “Of course not, and Festus is gone and the oven is closed, in any case. But I wonder, would Catti-brie be interested in forever defeating the threat of Khazid’hea so that the sword will never again do to another what it did to her?”

  “I will happily throw it into the chasm with Maegera to be devoured.”

  “No, no, there is a better way,” Jarlaxle assured her. “And in this way that I have discovered, you might well save another of the sword’s victims, and might well help me prevent the grand slaughter that will soon befall Menzoberranzan.”

  Catti-brie cocked her head, her blue eyes unblinking.

  “Take it,” Jarlaxle bade her. “Hold it, dominate it, demand of Khazid’hea that it tell you of another victim, and point the way.”

  “What madness is this?”

  “No madness, good lady, never that. You know there is no risk here, for you are far beyond the willpower of Khazid’hea. Do as I ask and I will explain. Or more likely, do as I ask, and you will come to understand all on your own.”

  Catti-brie hesitated. She wiped her hand on the side of her breeches, then slowly lifted it toward Jarlaxle, toward Khazid’hea, flinching.

  Chapter 6

  The Unlikely Band of Merry Friends

  In the training room of Ship Kurth in Luskan, Zaknafein twirled the phoenix-shaped hilt in his left hand, expertly rolling his fingers to keep it moving end over end. A blade erupted from the hilt, a shaft of brilliant light shifting from orange to yellow to white and spitting flames along its length.

  Now Zak went into a more engaged routine, widening his stance, rolling the blade along one side, across before him where he let it go in a spin, caught the hilt in his right hand, and snapped it across and out wide, cutting a line of fire into the air, surely a rift to the fiery plane.

  Zak sent it rolling again, easy and smooth, the deadly magical blade moving in
a balanced and mesmerizing dance. It went behind his back, then into his left hand, and in a circuit once and again on his left side.

  On that second turn, the blade elongated, drawing a gasp from the onlookers (except Jarlaxle, who appeared quite pleased, most likely with himself), and when it came up over his shoulder, it wasn’t a sword, but a whip, which Zaknafein snapped out straight ahead, again cutting a rift in the air, from which dripped a ball of flame.

  Both fiery rifts sizzled out at the same time, with a hiss and a pop.

  Zaknafein’s whip became a sword, and then just a beautiful hilt once more.

  “You are pleased?” Jarlaxle asked.

  Next to him, Artemis Entreri snorted at the absurdity of the question. What he had just seen was a weapon of power and of deception, which seemed a perfectly deadly combination.

  “It makes my other blade seem . . . inadequate,” Zak answered.

  “Because it is,” Jarlaxle agreed. “You prefer your left hand with the whip?”

  “Perhaps I will fight with this weapon alone. I have much training ahead with it to better disguise its tricks from my enemies.”

  “In your left hand, though?” Jarlaxle pressed.

  “Both hands,” Zak replied. “But yes, I prefer my left hand for the whip. Are you seeking weaknesses, Jarlaxle?”

  “Then perhaps this in your right hand?” Jarlaxle said, drawing out a gleaming silver sword with a dark hilt shaped in the likeness of a displacer beast, and with a slight angry red glow along its fine edge.

  “Cutter,” Entreri remarked.

  “Ah, so you planned that one for me,” Zak said. “I had thought you meant to keep that treasure for yourself.”

  “I promised you weapons fit for your talents. You have one, and this one will compliment it, for you’ll not find a sharper edge than that of Khazid’hea in all of Faerun. You can have it now, but I will need it from time to time.”

  That brought curious looks from both Zak and Entreri.

  “You mean to have Catti-brie put this blade, too, through the Great Forge?” Entreri asked. “I warn—”