“What of Luskan?”
“I will deal with Luskan.”
“You should speak with the Baenres.”
“I already have.”
They will lose their prized young weapons master, Jarlaxle’s fingers flashed.
I will see to it, came Kimmuriel’s cryptic response.
Jarlaxle did well to hide his frustration with this drow who always seemed one step ahead of everyone else—at least he thought he had hidden it until he realized that he hadn’t enacted the psychic shields afforded by his eyepatch and Kimmuriel was probably fully reading his mind.
“Shade Enclave, then,” Jarlaxle said.
Kimmuriel stepped into the shadows and was gone.
“Where’s this place?” Athrogate asked. “Me bum’s already starting to hurt.”
“Oh, it will hurt from riding,” Jarlaxle replied, still staring at the now-diminishing shadows. “A thousand miles to the east.”
“Right in the empire, then.”
“The heart of the Empire of Netheril,” Jarlaxle explained.
They summoned their mounts, nightmare and hell boar, and started away.
They rode easily, as usual, at a steady and consistent pace, trotting more than galloping though neither of their summoned mounts would tire.
“Ye think it really was him?” Athrogate asked as the sun lowered in the sky behind them.
“Who?”
“Ah, but don’t ye play clever with me,” the dwarf demanded. “I’m knowin’ ye too well for that.”
“Then it might be time for me to kill you.”
“Too well for that joke to be anything more than a joke, too,” said the dwarf. “So do ye think it really was Artemis Entreri?”
“I don’t know,” Jarlaxle admitted. “He should be long dead, but even in those last years, it seemed to me that he wasn’t aging as a normal human might. He certainly wasn’t losing his edge in battle, at least.”
“Shade stuff?” Athrogate asked. “Ye think his dagger sucked a bit o’ long life into him when he sticked a shade?”
“That was the reasoning,” Jarlaxle agreed, but then added, “Was.”
Athrogate looked up at him curiously. “So what’re ye thinkin’ now?”
Jarlaxle shrugged. “It could be the dagger, but with any of the life-stealing it performs and not that from a shade necessarily. Perhaps such a draw of an enemy’s life energy—any enemy—adds to one’s vitality and lifespan.”
Athrogate, who had been cursed with long life as part of a long-ago punishment, snorted at the horror.
“Or, more likely, Artemis Entreri is long dead, and no more than dust and bones,” Jarlaxle added.
“That Tiago fellow thought it was him.”
“Tiago Baenre isn’t old enough to know of Entreri’s visit to Menzoberranzan.”
“But ye said his sister—”
“Perhaps,” Jarlaxle interrupted, and that uncharacteristic interjection alone clued both of them in to how intriguing and unsettling this possibility was to the drow mercenary.
Jarlaxle gave a frustrated sigh and shook his head vigorously. “No matter,” he said, unconvincingly. “More likely, Drizzt and Dahlia have found a companion, whomever it might be, and Drizzt fed him that story to save them all when they were taken by the Xorlarrins.”
“Nah, that’s not Drizzt’s way,” Athrogate came back, and the response surprised Jarlaxle—until he looked down at his companion to witness Athrogate’s smile. The dwarf was prodding him, trying to draw him out.
“Drizzt ain’t one to weave a net o’ lies in advance,” Athrogate added. “That’s yer own way, not his.”
“Which is why I thrive while he merely survives,” Jarlaxle quipped. “I am sure that he and Dahlia will find a place soon enough. He always does.”
“Oh no ye don’t,” said Athrogate.
“I am sure that I do not know what you are talking about.”
“I’m talking about Entreri, and ye’re knowin’ it full well. That one’s ghost’s been following yerself for half-a-hunnerd years.”
Jarlaxle scoffed at that notion. “I have buried closer friends, and many lovers.”
“Aye, but how many needed buryin’ because o’ yer own actions?” Athrogate said.
There it was, spoken openly, and Jarlaxle suppressed his initial response to lash out at the dwarf. Athrogate was right, he knew. Jarlaxle had betrayed Entreri to the Netherese many years before, when the empire had come in force for the sword, Charon’s Claw. It wasn’t often in his long life that Jarlaxle had been trapped without recourse, but the Netherese had done it, and before physically surrounding the pair, the powerful lords of Netheril had appealed to greater powers in Jarlaxle’s own circle of potential allies, to Kimmuriel and Matron Mother Quenthel.
Indeed, the snares of Netheril had been complete.
And so their offer had been accepted.
Jarlaxle said no more for a long while, letting his thoughts slip back to Baldur’s Gate, the city where the final play had occurred. In exchange for his freedom, Jarlaxle had facilitated the takedown of Artemis Entreri, and indeed had even trapped the man in one of his extra-dimensional pockets for the Netherese. Both Entreri and Jarlaxle would have surely died otherwise, Jarlaxle told himself—then and now and a thousand times in between. And he had only chosen the route of betrayal because he had expected to quickly launch a rescue of Entreri, though likely one without retrieving the sword, of course, soon after his flight from Baldur’s Gate.
But that rescue attempt had never occurred, and indeed, many years passed before Jarlaxle had ever learned of the conspiracy working against him. Kimmuriel and the Baenres, for Jarlaxle’s own sake, had worked in concert to break down Jarlaxle’s magical defenses and thus allow the psionicist to invade Jarlaxle’s mind and alter the details of the Baldur’s Gate betrayal. As far as Jarlaxle could recall, just a few short hours after he had abandoned Entreri to the Netherese, that scenario had never happened, the actual events replaced by the suggestion of a betrayal by Entreri against Jarlaxle. Thus, by the time Jarlaxle had even sorted out the truth and remembered that Entreri had been taken as a prisoner of the Netherese, it was too late for Jarlaxle to do anything about it.
By that point, Matron Mother Quenthel had made it quite clear to the outraged Jarlaxle that he needed to forget the whole ordeal.
Pragmatism told him to honor her demands, for what would have been the gain of Jarlaxle attempting any such rescue, or even looking into the disposition of Artemis Entreri by that point, anyway? Even if Entreri had somehow managed to survive the initial capture and early imprisonment, he would have likely died of old age by then.
Unless …
“So now I find meself hopin’ that ye think o’ me as high as ye thought of Entreri,” Athrogate said, drawing him from his contemplations.
“What?” a surprised Jarlaxle said, looking again to his bearded companion.
“He’s still with ye,” Athrogate explained. “After all these tens o’ years. I’m thinkin’ that few others’d get more than a passing thought from Jarlaxle, even if ye came to think that one ye thought dead weren’t.”
“I am intrigued, is all.”
Athrogate’s roaring laughter mocked him.
Jarlaxle’s face grew tight and he looked straight ahead, urging his nightmare on at a slightly swifter pace.
“Aye, get done with our business so ye can find Drizzt and his companions, eh?”
Jarlaxle pulled up hard on the reins, halting his steed, and turned to glower at the dwarf. Athrogate had indeed struck a nerve with Jarlaxle. He knew there was little he could do to change the past, but for some reason, it was important for him to set the record straight with Artemis Entreri.
“Why do ye care, elf?” Athrogate asked him.
“I do not know,” came Jarlaxle’s honest response.
THE ARRANGED MARRIAGE
EFFRON DIDN’T MUCH LIKE THE SNOW, AND THE SWORD COAST WAS SEEING more than its share of the wintry precip
itation as the turn to the Year of the Six-armed Elf neared. He had returned to check in on the progress or retreat of the Thayans, as his master had demanded. Lord Draygo had told him to be thorough and not anxious, and the old warlock’s insistence that this mission was important had resonated with Effron, all the more so because he knew that showing his loyalty to Draygo Quick and his competence in carrying out these demands would likely be rewarded.
For all of his desperation to pay back Dahlia, Effron understood that he couldn’t manage any such thing alone. She was surrounded by powerful allies, and he would need a powerful response. The resources and personal power of Lord Draygo Quick would more than suffice.
So Effron had faithfully gone into Neverwinter Wood once again, and had thoroughly scouted and spied upon the remnants of the Thayan force, particularly the lich known as Valindra Shadowmantle. The Ashmadai were scattered and leaderless, posing no threat at all to the city or to any of Draygo Quick’s ambitions in this area, if he held any. It didn’t take Effron very long to realize that his previous report to Lord Draygo had been correct, for he saw nothing of Valindra Shadowmantle to indicate anything other than sheer insanity. The lich wandered out from her treelike tower on occasion and meandered through the forest paths calling for Arklem Greeth or Dor’crae, and rarely speaking either name correctly and without some insane stutter, wailing and keening, and occasionally throwing a bolt of purplish-black necromantic energy at a tree or a bird for no reason whatsoever.
Effron figured that she would be caught by the citizen garrison of Neverwinter soon enough and properly dispatched.
He turned his eyes away from Valindra and the Thayans then, but lurked around the forest. Now he looked toward Neverwinter. Every time he noted activity near the city gates, he peered closely and anxiously, as if he expected Dahlia to walk into view. And what would he do if that came to pass, he had to ask himself?
Would he hold to his promise to Draygo Quick of restraint and patience?
He told himself that he would, that he had to be careful with his father Herzgo Alegni gone. More than once, though, he wondered if he was lying to himself.
On the morning he had determined to be his last day near the city, Effron walked a perimeter outside the wall, finding empty regions by which he could travel deeper into the place with his wraith form and other various methods of magical invisibility.
By late morning, he had covered most of the perimeter, and had ventured into the city four separate times, and with still a lot of wall yet to scout. He almost quit and simply took to the north road, growing convinced that Dahlia had indeed departed, as Lord Draygo had hinted.
“I would never have thought you foolish enough to return here, unless it was at the head of an army,” a voice whispered from behind him barely a few heartbeats after he had convinced himself to continue his last look around.
Effron froze in place, plotting spell combinations and contingencies, either to get away or to strike out hard, for he knew that voice, and more importantly, he knew the diabolical truth behind it.
“Come now, young tiefling, we need not be enemies,” the red-haired woman said.
“Yet I remember your presence in the ranks of my enemies in the square near the bridge that day,” Effron reminded her.
“Well, I didn’t say I would let you conquer my city,” the woman replied. “Have you returned with such intentions? If so, please do tell that I might be done with you now.”
“You underestimate my skills.”
“You know the truth of mine,” she replied.
Effron spun around to regard her. She seemed so plain and calm, nondescript, even. She exuded motherhood at that moment, and it occurred to Effron that he wished he had been blessed with such a mother. Warm and comforting, someone to hold him close and tell him that everything would turn out well …
The twisted warlock laughed at himself and shook that notion away. This was Arunika. Arunika was a devil, a succubus from the Nine Hells, wearing the mantle of a simple and gentle red-haired woman with a slightly freckled face. An ordinary citizen of Neverwinter, just going about her daily chores as any good human might.
“You are hunting Barrabus and that sword,” Arunika remarked.
It occurred to Effron that perhaps she didn’t know everything after all.
“What do you know of him?” Effron asked. “And of his companions?” he quickly added, trying not to sound too obvious.
“Why would I tell you?”
Effron ran his good hand between his horns and scratched at his purple hair. It was a good question, he had to admit.
“I have information you will wish to hear,” Effron offered a few moments later.
“Do tell.”
“Well, that is the whole point, isn’t it?”
Arunika laughed at him. “I’ve already established that I know that you know.”
“Not that, devil.”
“I should kill you for torturing my imp,” Arunika remarked. “Not for the sake of the imp, of course, but because of the breach of protocol. Invidoo is my property, and so I demand recompense. Tell me your secret, twisted warlock.”
“I will,” Effron promised. “And you tell me of Barrabus.”
“I owe you nothing.”
“But what harm in telling me? Surely you don’t hold any loyalty to Barrabus the Gray, and certainly not to his companion, this drow ranger. Indeed, should Drizzt learn the truth of Arunika, he would chase you from the land.”
Her expression revealed her unpleasant surprise at that thinly veiled threat. “Then I should make sure I destroy anyone else who might betray that secret. Is that your point?”
Now Effron laughed, but it was an uncomfortable ploy.
“I would not tell him … anything,” the twisted warlock said. “Nor Barrabus and the other, Dahlia. You witnessed the fight on the bridge when Herzgo Alegni was driven from this land. Effron is no friend to those three, I assure you. But I have mentioned the truth of Arunika to others among my Netherese brethren, including several lords who would not take well your threats against me. Beware, succubus, else you tempt the wrath of Netheril.”
Arunika stared at him hard, and yet, even in that look, there remained something so very appealing about this creature.
“But there is no need for any of this,” Effron insisted. “We are not enemies, or should not be. Netheril will not return to Neverwinter. We have no reason to care, with the Thayan threat destroyed.”
“Netheril was here before there was a Thayan threat to Neverwinter,” Arunika reminded him.
“True enough,” Effron admitted. “Our work was in the forest, and indeed, we may return to that place, but with no designs on ruling the city. It is not our place. It brings unwanted attention. So there, that is my secret, offered in friendship.”
“And offered before you exacted your demand.”
“All I ask is for you to guide me along the proper road to find Barrabus and his companions,” Effron replied. “And why would you not? Should they return to Neverwinter, they’ll not befriend Arunika, and should they ever determine the truth of your identity, they will seek to destroy you. So what do I ask of you that will not benefit you?”
Arunika laughed again. “I do so enjoy the play of mortals,” she said. “With their foolish impatience as they scramble to make a legacy that will not last, no matter how many they kill.”
Effron started to respond to that confusing statement, but Arunika waved him to silence.
“There is a band of highwaymen along the road just a few days north of here. If you make yourself conspicuous enough, they will likely find you.”
“Would that be a good thing?” he asked after considering Arunika’s words, and considering why she might have spoken them.
Arunika smiled sweetly—too sweetly. “Find the highwaymen and you will learn much of Barrabus and his friends,” she said.
Effron thought of going back to the Shadowfell and letting Draygo Quick guide him to a more advantageous location b
ack on Toril, but part of his mission, likely the most important part, was to learn the lay of the land around their prey.
So off he went. He had enough supplies for a tenday, at least. He had gone through almost half of those supplies before he came upon another person, a score of miles and more north of Neverwinter.
“Halt and be counted,” the woman demanded, stepping out into the snow-covered trail before him, two large men at her side.
“If you are a guard, pray tell from what town?” Effron replied innocently. Arunika’s words echoed in his thoughts. “I am not familiar with this region.”
“If you were, you wouldn’t be foolish enough to be traveling the roads alone,” the woman replied with a rather sinister grin. She nodded to the thugs flanking her and both began a steady advance.
Effron didn’t flinch, and even smiled, which had the two men, both much larger than he, glancing at each other.
“Then the only question that remains,” the small warlock remarked, “is whether I should sting you and chase you away, or simply kill you and be done with it.” He shrugged and let his useless arm swing weirdly behind him, using it to further press the idea that he wasn’t the least bit intimidated.
An arrow whipped out of the trees to the side of the road, speeding straight for the warlock, but Effron was, of course, magically defended against such attacks and his shield of magical energy deflected the arrow enough so that it whipped just a hair’s breadth from his face—and had he not instinctively turned aside, the missile would have likely taken a bit of his nose with it.
“The latter, I think,” he calmly stated.
“Port Llast has little to offer,” Dorwyllan told Drizzt and the others when he found them gearing up for the road.
“Ye’re here,” Ambergris replied dryly.
“Why thank you, good dwarf,” the grinning elf said with an exaggerated bow.
“Not what I’m meanin’!” Ambergris insisted, but she couldn’t keep the toothy smile wholly off her face against Dorwyllan’s clever retort.
The elf tossed her a wink. “I am here out of loyalty to these people who have stood so fiercely for their homes and their place in the world. I have lived here for many decades. My friendships go back generations to some of the families of Port Llast. A sorry friend I would be indeed if I were to now desert them.”
The Last Threshold: Neverwinter Saga, Book IV Page 15
