The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt (forgotten realms)

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I never got close to finishing,” the mage said more calmly, letting go of the elf. “I just let her go.”

  Josidiah turned his wide-eyed stare from Anders to the panther. The questions were obvious then; neither the elf nor the mage bothered to speak them aloud.

  “We must get her back to my tower,” Anders said.

  Josidiah’s expression remained incredulous. How were they to carry six hundred pounds of limp cat all the way back to the tower?

  But Anders had an answer for that. He took out a swatch of black velvet and unfolded it several times, until he had a patch of blackness several feet in diameter on the hilltop. Then the mage lifted one side of the cloth and gently eased it against the rear of the panther.

  Josidiah blinked, realizing that the cat’s tail had disappeared into the cloth!

  “Lift her as I pass this over her,” Anders begged. Josidiah did just that, lifting the cat inch by inch as the mage moved the cloth along. The panther was swallowed up by the blackness.

  “Extradimensional hole,” the mage explained, slipping it forward to engulf the cat’s head. Then he laid the cloth flat once more and carefully folded it back to a size that would fit in his pocket. “She is quite fine,” he said. “Well, except for the giant’s wounds.”

  “Wondrous toys, wizard,” Josidiah congratulated.

  “Spoils of adventuring,” Anders replied with a wink. “You should get out more.”

  The mirth could not hold as the pair ran off, back for Beltgarden Home. What might they do there but make the dying cat comfortable, after all?

  Anders did just that, opening his portable hole and gently easing the panther part of the way out of it. He stopped short, though, and Josidiah winced, understanding that the cat was drawing her last breaths.

  “Perhaps I can finish the figurine enchantment,” Anders reasoned. He looked sympathetically to Josidiah. “Be gone,” he said, “for I must slay the cat quickly, mercifully.”

  Josidiah shook his head, determined to bear witness to the transformation, to the mortal end of this most wondrous cat, to this intelligent panther that had come, unbidden, to his rescue. How might the elf explain the bond that had grown between him and the cat? Had Anders’s magical preparation imparted a sense of loyalty to the panther, given her the beginnings of that mindless slavery she would have known as a magical tool?

  Josidiah looked once more into the cat’s eyes and knew that was not the case. Something else had happened here, something of a higher order, though perhaps in part facilitated by the magic of Anders’s preparation.

  Anders moved quickly to retrieve the figurine and placed it beside the dying panther. “You will take the figurine,” he said to Josidiah.

  “I cannot,” the bladesinger replied, for he could not bear to see the panther in the subsequent lessened form, could not bear to take the cat as his slave.

  Anders did not argue-there was no time for that. He poured some enchanted oil over the cat’s head, weaving his magic, and placed his hand over the panther’s eyes.

  “I name you Whiskers,” he began, putting his dagger against the animal’s throat.

  “No!” Josidiah shouted, rushing beside the mage, grabbing the man’s hand and pulling the dagger away. “Not Whiskers, never that!”

  Josidiah looked to the cat, into the marvelous yellow-green eyes, shining intently still, though the moment of death was upon her. He studied the animal, the beautiful, silent friend. “Shadow,” he declared.

  “No, not shadow,” said Josidiah, and he held back the dagger once more. “The high elvish word for shadow.” He looked right into the cat’s eyes, searching for some confirmation. He had not chosen this name, he suddenly understood; this had been the panther’s name all along.

  “Guenhwyvar.”

  As soon as he uttered the name, there came a black flash, like the negative image of one of Anders’s lightning bolts. Gray mist filled the room; the cloth swatch contracted and disappeared altogether, and then the panther, too, was gone, dissipating into nothingness.

  Anders and Josidiah fell back, sitting side by side. It seemed for a moment that there was a profound line of emptiness in the room, a rift in the universe, as though the fabric of the planes of existence had been torn asunder. But then it was gone, everything-panther, hole, and rift, and all that remained was the figurine.

  “What did you do?” Josidiah asked the mage.

  “I?” balked Anders. “What did you do?”

  Josidiah moved cautiously to retrieve the figurine. With it in hand, he looked back to Anders, who nodded slowly in agreement.

  “Guenhwyvar,” the elf called nervously.

  A moment later, the area beside the elf filled with the gray mist, swirling and gradually taking the shape of the panther. She was breathing more easily, as though her wounds were fast on the mend. She looked up at Josidiah, and the elf’s breath fell away, lost in the intensity, the intelligence, of that gaze.

  This was no slave, no magical tool; this was the panther, the same wondrous panther!

  “How did you do this?” the elf asked.

  “I know not,” Anders replied. “And I do not even know what I, what we, have done, with the figurine. It is the statuette that transforms into the living beast, and yet, the cat is here, and so is the statuette!” The old mage chuckled, locking gazes with the elf. “Send her away to heal,” he bade.

  Josidiah looked to the cat. “Go, Guenhwyvar, but I shall summon you forth again, I promise.”

  The panther growled, but it was not an angry sound, and she began a slow, limping pace, melting away into gray mist.

  “That is the joy of magic,” Anders said. “The mystery of it all. Why, even the greatest wizards could not explain this, I should guess. Perhaps all of my preparation, perhaps the magic of the hole-ah, yes, my dear, lost hole! — perhaps the combination of all these things.

  “The joy of the mysteries,” he finished. “Very well, then, give it to me.” And he held out his hand for the figurine, but Josidiah clutched it all the tighter.

  “Never,” the elf said with a smile, and Anders smiled, as well.

  “Indeed,” said the mage, hardly surprised. “But you will pay for my lost hole, and for my time and effort.”

  “Gladly,” said the elf, and he knew, holding that statuette, holding the key to the wondrous black panther, to Guenhwyvar, whom Josidiah realized would be his most loyal companion and friend for all the rest of his days, that it would be the most worthwhile gold he ever spent.

  That Curious Sword

  The Year of the Shield (1367 DR)

  It is not so different from Calimport,” Artemis Entreri insisted, somewhat stubbornly.

  Across the table from him, Jarlaxle merely chuckled.

  “And you call my people xenophobic,” the dark elf replied. “At least we are not so racist toward others of our own species!”

  “You talk the part of the fool.”

  “I talked my way into the city, did I not?” Jarlaxle replied with that mischievous grin of his.

  It was true enough. He and Entreri had come north and east, to the region known as the Bloodstone Lands. There, word had it, adventurers could do a fine business in goblin ears and the like, taken from the wild lands of Vaasa to the north of the kingdom of Damara and this city, Damara’s capital, Heliogabalus. Liberally invoking the name of Gareth Dragonsbane, and reminding the city guards that the Paladin King of Damara was a man known for tolerance and understanding, a man known for judging all people by their actions and not their heritage, the dark elf had convinced the city’s stern protectors to allow him entry.

  They had agreed mostly because Jarlaxle was like no other dark elf they had ever heard of-and none of them had ever seen one. Outrageously dressed with a flamboyant wide-brimmed hat capped by a huge purple feather, a flowing cape-blue on the day he had entered the city, since turned red-an eye patch that daily changed from eye to eye, and with no apparent weapons, the drow seemed more a conversation piece than a
ny threat to the security of the great city. They had let him and Entreri, with his magnificent sword and jeweled dagger, enter the city, but had promised to watch over them carefully.

  After a couple of hours, the assassin and the drow knew that promise was one the lazy guards didn’t intend to keep.

  “You’re taking far too long!” Entreri yelled across the somewhat crowded tavern, at the hapless waitress who had taken their order for drinks and food.

  They knew she was in no hurry to return to them, for she had been trembling visibly at the sight of a drow elf all the time she was trying to concentrate on their words.

  The woman blanched and started toward the bar, then turned around, then turned around again, as if she didn’t know what to do. At a nearby table, a pair of men looked from her to Entreri, their expressions sour.

  The assassin sat calmly, almost hoping that the pair would make a move. He was in an especially foul mood over the last couple of months, ever since he and Jarlaxle had destroyed the Crystal Shard. The road had been boring and uneventful, even with his flamboyant companion, and Jarlaxle’s plan to come to the Bloodstone Lands to make a reputation and some coin by killing goblins and other monsters sounded more to Entreri like a job for his former arch-nemesis Drizzt and his “gallant” friends.

  Still, Entreri had to admit that their options were a bit limited, since Calimport was shut off to them and they’d have a hard time truly establishing themselves in the bowery of any other city.

  “You’ve flustered her,” Jarlaxle remarked.

  Entreri just shrugged.

  “You know, my friend, there is a saying among the drow nobles that if someone treats you well but is wicked to the peasants, then he is truly a wicked person. Now, in my society, that is a compliment, but here?”

  Entreri sat back and lifted the front of his round, thin-brimmed hat-Jarlaxle called it a “bolero”-high above his eyes, so that the drow could clearly see his stare, could see the skepticism in his dark eyes.

  “Do not pretend you don’t care,” Jarlaxle said against that smirk.

  “Now my conscience is a dark elf?” Entreri asked incredulously. “How low must I have sunk.”

  “Artemis Entreri is a better man than to whip a serving girl,” was all Jarlaxle said, pointedly turning away.

  With a frustrated growl, Entreri shoved back from the table and started across the room, his small form moving silently and gracefully, almost as if he was floating across the room, heading for the serving girl. He passed the table with the two loud onlookers, and one of them started to stand as if to block the way, but a look from Entreri, so cold and strong, was enough to alter that plan.

  “You,” Entreri called to the girl.

  She stopped, and everything in the place seemed to come to a complete halt, all conversations ending abruptly.

  Well, except for the knowing chuckle from a peculiar-looking dark elf at the back of the room.

  The serving girl slowly turned to watch Entreri’s approach. He moved right up to her and fell to one knee.

  “I beg your pardon, good lady,” he apologized.

  He held out his hand and dropped a few gold coins onto her tray.

  The young woman stared at him in disbelief.

  Entreri came up from his bow to stand before her. “I expect that you’ve forgotten what we ordered,” he said. “Which is understandable, given the …” he paused and glanced back at Jarlaxle, then finished, “… unusual look of my friend. I will tell you our preferences again, and with my apologies for not seeing your dilemma earlier.”

  All around him, the patrons went back to their private conversations. The waitress beamed a great smile, obviously relieved.

  Entreri started to go on, to ask her forgiveness, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do that.

  “My thanks,” he said, and he reiterated the order, then turned back and rejoined Jarlaxle.

  “Wonderful!” the dark elf said. “I do believe that I will have you in a paladin’s order within a year!”

  Entreri narrowed his dark eyes, to which Jarlaxle only laughed.

  “Thinked I was gonna have to kick yer arse outta here,” came a voice from the side.

  The companions turned to see the innkeeper, a burly older man who looked like a good portion of his chest had slipped to his belly. Still, the large man held an imposing aura about him. Before either of them could take his words as a threat or an insult, though, the man widened a crooked, gap-toothed smile at them.

  “Was glad ye made me girl, Kitzy, happy.” He pulled out a chair, reversed it, then straddled it, placing his huge elbows on the table and leaning forward. “So what’s bringing a pair like you to Heliogabalus?”

  “I just wanted to see a city that could boast of such a stupid name,” Entreri quipped, and the innkeeper howled and slapped his thigh.

  “We have heard that there is fame and fortune to be made in this country,” Jarlaxle said in all seriousness, “for those strong enough and cunning enough to find it.”

  “And that’d be yerself?”

  “Some might think so,” the dark elf replied, and he gave a shrug. “As you can imagine, it is not easy for one of my heritage to gain acceptance. Perhaps this is an opportunity worth investigating.”

  “A hero drow?”

  “You have, perhaps, heard of Drizzt Do’Urden?” Jarlaxle asked.

  Once before, he had tried to use that name for himself, to impress some farmers who, it turned out, had never heard of the unusual drow warrior of Icewind Dale.

  Entreri watched his friend’s performance with budding anger, recognizing the ploy for what it was. Jarlaxle had been frustrated with his inability to impersonate Drizzt, or at least, with the lack of gain he would derive from impersonating someone that no one had ever heard of, but perhaps if this man knew of Drizzt, Jarlaxle could assume the identity anew, and begin this phase of his journey a bit higher on the feeding chain of Heliogabalus.

  “Drizzit Dudden?” the man echoed badly, scratching his head. “Nope, can’t say that I have. He another drow?”

  “Another corpse,” Entreri put in, and he shot Jarlaxle a glare, not appreciating that Jarlaxle kept bringing up that one’s name.

  Artemis Entreri was done with Drizzt. He had beaten the drow in their last encounter-with help from a dark elf psionicist-but more importantly than killing Drizzt, Entreri had exorcised the demon within himself, the need to ever deal with that one again.

  “It does not matter,” Jarlaxle said, apparently catching the cue and bringing the conversation back in place.

  “So ye’re here to make a name for yerselfs, eh? I expect ye’ll be headin’ up Vaasa way.”

  “I expect that you ask too many questions,” said Entreri, and Jarlaxle tossed him another scowl.

  “You do seem rather inquisitive,” the drow added, mostly to downplay Entreri’s tone.

  “Well that’s me business,” the innkeeper replied. “Folks’ll be askin’ me about the strange pair that came through.”

  “Strange?” Entreri asked.

  “Ye got a drow elf with ye.”

  “True enough.”

  “So if ye’re tellin’ me yer tale, then ye’re really saving yerselfs some trouble,” the innkeeper went on.

  “The town herald,” Jarlaxle said dryly.

  “That’s me business.”

  “Well, it is as we have already told you,” the dark elf replied. He stood up and offered a polite bow. “I am Jarlaxle, and this is my friend, Artemis Entreri.”

  As the innkeeper replied with the customary “Well met,” Entreri put another frown on and glowered at the dark elf, hardly believing that Jarlaxle had just given out their names. The innkeeper offered his name in reply, which Entreri didn’t bother to catch, then began telling them a few tales about men who had gone up to fight in Vaasa, which interested Entreri even less. Then, after a call from the bar area, the man excused himself and walked away.

  “What?” Jarlaxle asked against Entreri’s frown.


  “You are so willing to give out our identities?”

  “Why would I not be?”

  Entreri’s expression showed clearly that the reasons should be obvious.

  “There is nobody chasing us, my friend. We haven’t earned the anger of the authorities-not in this region, at least. Were you not known in Calimport as Artemis Entreri? Do not be ashamed of your name!”

  Entreri just shook his head, sat back, and took a sip of his wine. This whole adventure on the road was too out of place for him still.

  Some time later, the inn clearing out of the nightly patrons, the innkeeper ambled back over to the pair.

  “So, when’re ye off to Vaasa?” he asked.

  Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged knowing looks-the way the man had spoken the words showed it to be a leading question.

  “Soon, I would expect,” Jarlaxle replied, nibbling at the bait. “Our funds are running low.”

  “Ah, ye’re lookin’ for work already,” said the innkeeper. “Killin’ goblins only? Well, goblins and orcs, I mean? Or are ye in the game for more subtle forms?”

  “You presume much,” said Entreri.

  “True enough, but ye’re not tellin’ me that ye’re fighters of the open road, now are ye?”

  “Would you like to see?” Entreri offered.

  “Oh, I’m not doubtin’ ye!” the man said with a broad grin. He held his huge paws up before him, warding the dangerous man away. “But ye look like a pair who might be doing better work for better pay, if ye get me meaning.”

  “And if we do not?”

  The innkeeper looked at Entreri curiously.

  “If we do not get your meaning,” Jarlaxle explained.

  “Ah, well, there’re plenty of jobs about Heliogabalus,” the innkeeper explained. “For the right crew, I mean. The authorities are all up at the wall in Vaasa, fighting monsters, but that leaves many citizens wronged back here in town, with nowhere to turn.”

  Entreri didn’t even try to hide his smirk, and in truth, just hearing the man ramble on made him feel a bit more at home. Heliogabalus, after all, wasn’t so different from Calimport, where the laws of the land and the laws of the street were two very different codes. He could hardly believe that he and Jarlaxle had been sought out so quickly, though, with no reputation preceding them, but he didn’t think too much about it. Likely, most of the fighters of the region were away in the north, along with most of those who had made their living by keeping order on the street, as well, whatever order that might be.