Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  Entreri turned his head to watch Jarlaxle enter the room, his tall black leather boots clacking loudly on the wooden floor. A moment ago, those boots were making not a whisper of sound, Entreri knew, for Jarlaxle could silence them or amplify them with no more than a thought.

  “You look disheveled,” the drow remarked. He reached over to the dark wood bureau and pulled Entreri’s white shirt from it, then tossed it to the seated assassin.

  “I just awakened.”

  “Ah, the tigress I brought you last night drove you to slumber.”

  “Or she bored me to sleep.”

  “You worry me.”

  If you knew how often the thought of killing you entered my mind, Entreri thought, but stopped as a knowing smirk widened on Jarlaxle’s face. Jarlaxle was guessing his thoughts, he knew, if not reading them in detail with some strange magical device.

  “Where is the red-haired lass?”

  Entreri looked around the small room and shrugged. “I suspect that she left.”

  “Even with sleep caking your eyes, you remain the perceptive one.”

  Entreri sighed and glanced back at his dagger, and at his reflection, the side-by-side images eliciting similar feelings. He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his bleary eyes.

  He lifted his head at the sound of banging to see Jarlaxle using the pommel of a dagger to nail some ornament in place on the jamb above the door.

  “A gift from Ilnezhara,” the drow explained, stepping back and moving his hands away to reveal the palm-sized charm: a silvery dragon statuette, rearing, wings and jaws wide.

  Entreri wasn’t surprised. Ilnezhara and her sister Tazmikella had become their benefactors, or their employers, or their companions, or whatever else Ilnezhara and Tazmikella wanted, so it seemed. The sisters held every trump in the relationship because they were, after all, dragons.

  Always dragons lately.

  Entreri had never laid eyes upon a dragon until he’d met Jarlaxle. Since that time, he had seen far too many of the beasts.

  “Lightning of the blue,” Jarlaxle whispered to the statuette, and the figurine’s eyes flared with a bright, icy blue light for just a moment then dimmed.

  “What did you just do?”

  Jarlaxle turned to face Entreri, his smile beaming. “Let us just say that it would not do to walk through that doorway without first identifying the dragon type.”

  “Blue?”

  “For now,” the drow teased.

  “How do you know I won’t change it on you when you’re out?” Entreri asked, determined to turn the tables on the cocky dark elf.

  Jarlaxle tapped his eye patch. “Because I can see through doors,” he explained. “And the eyes will always give it away.” His smile disappeared, and he glanced around the room again.

  “You are certain that the tigress has gone?” he asked.

  “Or she’s become very, very small.”

  Jarlaxle cast a sour expression Entreri’s way. “Is she under your bed?”

  “You wear the eye patch. Just look through it.”

  “Ah, you wound me yet again,” said the drow. “Tell me, my friend, if I peer into your chest, will I see but a cavity where your heart should be?”

  Entreri stood up and pulled on his shirt. “Inform me if that is the case,” he said, walking over to tug his jeweled dagger out of the wall, “that I might cut out Jarlaxle’s heart to serve as replacement.”

  “Far too large for the likes of Entreri, I fear.”

  Entreri started to respond, but found that he hadn’t the heart for it.

  “There is a caravan leaving in two days,” Jarlaxle informed him. “We might not only find passage to the north but gather some gainful employ in the process. They are in need of guards, you see.”

  Entreri regarded him carefully and curiously, not quite knowing what to make of Jarlaxle’s sudden, ceaseless promotion of journeying to the Gates of Damara, the two massive walls blocking either end of the Bloodstone Pass through the Galena Mountains into the wilderlands of neighboring Vaasa. This campaign for a northern adventure had begun soon after the pair had nearly been killed in their last escapade, and that battle in the strange tower still had Entreri quite shaken.

  “Our bona fides, my friend,” said the drow, and Entreri’s face screwed up even more curiously. “Many a hero is making a name for himself in Vaasa,” Jarlaxle explained. “The opportunities for wealth, fame, and reputation are rarely so fine.”

  “I thought our goal was to make our reputation on the streets of Heliogabalus,” Entreri replied, “among potential employers.”

  “And current employers,” Jarlaxle agreed. “And so we shall. But think how much service and profit we might gather from a heroic reputation. It will elevate us from suspicion, and perhaps insulate us from punishment if we are caught in an indiscreet action. A few months at the Vaasan Gate will elevate our reputations more than a few years here in Heliogabalus ever could.”

  Entreri’s eyes narrowed. There has to be something more to this, he thought.

  They had been in Damara for several months, and had known about the “opportunities” for heroes in the wilderlands of Vaasa from the beginning—how could they not when every tavern and half the street corners of the city of Heliogabalus were plastered with notices claiming as much? Yet only recently, only since the near disaster in the tower, had Jarlaxle taken to the notion of traveling to the north, something Entreri found quite out of character. Work in Vaasa was difficult, and luxuries nonexistent, and Entreri knew all too well that Jarlaxle prized luxury above all else.

  “So what has Ilnezhara told you about Vaasa that has so intrigued you?” Entreri asked.

  Jarlaxle’s smile came in the form of a wry grin, one that did not deny Entreri’s suspicions.

  “You know of the war?” the drow asked.

  “Little,” Entreri admitted. “I have heard the glory of King Gareth Dragonsbane. Who could not, in this city that serves as a shrine to the man and his hero companions?”

  “They did battle with Zhengyi, the Witch-King,” the drow explained, “a lich of tremendous power.”

  “And with flights of dragons,” Entreri cut in, sounding quite bored. “Yes, yes, I have heard it all.”

  “Many of Zhengyi’s treasures have been uncovered, claimed, and brought to Damara,” said Jarlaxle. “But what they have found is a pittance. Zhengyi possessed artifacts, and a hoard of treasure enough to entice flights of dragons to his call. And he was a lich. He knew the secret.”

  “You hold such aspirations?” Entreri didn’t hide the disgust in his voice.

  Jarlaxle scoffed at the notion. “I am a drow. I will live for centuries more, though centuries have been born and have died in my lifetime. In Menzoberranzan there is a lich of great power.”

  “The Lichdrow Dyrr, I know,” Entreri reminded him.

  “The most wretched creature in the city, by most accounts. I have dealt with him on occasion, enough to know that practically the entirety of his efforts are devoted to the perpetuation of his existence. He has bought eternity for himself, so he is terrified of losing it. It is a wretched existence, as cold as his skin, and a solitary state of being that knows no like company. How many wards must he weave to feel secure, when he has brought himself to the point where he might lose too much to comprehend? No, lichdom is not something I aspire to, I assure you.”

  “Neither do I.”

  “But do you realize the power that would come from possessing Zhengyi’s knowledge?” the drow asked. “Do you realize how great a price aging kings, fearing their impending death, would pay?”

  Entreri just stared at the drow.

  “And who can tell what other marvels Zhengyi possessed?” Jarlaxle went on. “Are there treasuries full of powerful magical charms or dragon-sized mounds of gemstones? Had the Witch-King weapons that dwarf the power of your own Charon’s Claw?”

  “Is there no purpose to your life beyond the act of acquisition?”

  That rocked
Jarlaxle back on his heels—one of the very few times Entreri had ever seen him temporarily rattled. But of course it passed quickly.

  “If it is, it’s the purpose of both my life and yours, it would seem,” the drow finally retorted. “Did you not cross the face of Faerûn to hunt down Regis and the ruby pendant of Pasha Pook?”

  “It was a job.”

  “One you could have refused.”

  “I enjoy the adventure.”

  “Then let us go,” said the drow, and he waved his arm in an exaggerated motion at the door. “Adventure awaits! Experiences beyond any we have known, perhaps. How can you resist?”

  “Vaasa is an empty frozen tundra for most of the year and a puddle of muddy swamp the rest.”

  “And below that tundra?” the drow teased. “There are treasures up there beyond our dreams.”

  “And there are hundreds of adventurers searching for those treasures.”

  “Of course,” the drow conceded, “but none of them know how to look as well as I.”

  “I could take that two ways.”

  Jarlaxle put one hand on his hip, turned slightly, and struck a pose. “And you would be correct on both counts,” he assured his friend. The drow reached into his belt pouch and brought forth a corn bread cake artistically topped with a sweet white and pink frosting. He held it up before his eyes, a grin widening on his face. “I do so know how to find, and retain, treasure,” he said, and he tossed the delicacy to Entreri with the explanation, “A present from Piter.”

  Entreri looked at the cake, though he was in no mood for delicacies, or any food at all.

  “Piter,” he whispered.

  He knew the man himself was the treasure to which Jarlaxle was referring and not the cake. Entreri and Jarlaxle had liberated the fat chef, Piter McRuggle, from a band of inept highwaymen, and Jarlaxle had subsequently set the man and his family up at a handsome shop in Heliogabalus. The drow knew talent when he saw it, and in Piter, there could be no doubt. The bakery was doing wonderful business, lining Jarlaxle’s pockets with extra coin and lining his notebooks with information.

  It occurred to Artemis Entreri that he, too, might fall into Jarlaxle’s category of found and retained treasures. It was pretty obvious which of the duo was taking the lead and who was following.

  “Now, have I mentioned that there is a caravan leaving in two days?” Jarlaxle remarked with that irresistible grin of his.

  Entreri started to respond, but the words died away in his throat. What was the point?

  Two days later, he and Jarlaxle were rode sturdy ponies, guarding the left flank of a six-wagon caravan that wound its way out of Heliogabalus’s north gate.

  CHAPTER 3

  LIFE IN FUGUE

  Entreri crawled out of his tent, rose to his feet and stretched slowly and to his limits. He twisted as he reached up high, the sudden stab in his lower back reminding him of his age. The hard ground didn’t serve him well as a bed.

  He came out of his stretch rubbing his eyes then glanced around at the tent-filled plain set between towering walls of mountains east and west. Just north of Entreri’s camp loomed the gray-black stones and iron of the Vaasan Gate, the northern of the two great fortress walls that sealed Bloodstone Valley north and south. The Vaasan Gate had finally been completed, if such a living work could ever truly be considered finished, with fortresses on the eastern and western ends of the main structure set in the walls of the Galena Mountains. the gate served as the last barrier between Entreri and the wilderness of Vaasa. He and Jarlaxle had accompanied the caravan through the much larger of the two gates, the Damaran Gate, which was still under construction in the south. They had ridden with the wagons for another day, moving northwest under the shadow of the mountain wall, to Bloodstone Village, home of King Gareth—though the monarch was under pressure to move his seat of power to the largest city in the kingdom, Heliogabalus.

  Not wanting to remain in that most lawful of places, the pair had quickly taken their leave, moving again to the north, a dozen mile trek that had brought them to the wider, relatively flat area the gathered adventurers had collectively named the Fugue Plane. A fitting title, Entreri thought, for the namesake of the Fugue Plane was rumored to be the extra-dimensional state of limbo for recently departed souls, the region where the newly dead congregated before their final journey to Paradise or Torment. The place between the heavens and the hells.

  The tent city was no less a crossroads, for south lay Damara—at peace, united, and prosperous under the leadership of the Paladin King—while north beyond the wall was a land of wild adventure and desperate battle.

  And of course, he and Jarlaxle were heading north.

  All manner of ruffians inhabited the tent city, the types of people Entreri knew well from his days on Calimport’s streets. Would-be heroes, every one—men and a few women who would do anything to make a name for themselves. How many times had the younger Entreri ventured forth with such people? And more often than not, the journey had ended with a conflict between the members of the band. As he considered that, Entreri’s hand instinctively went to the dagger sheathed on his hip.

  He knew better than to trust ambitious people.

  The smell of meat cooking permeated the dew-filled morning air. Scores of breakfast fires dotted the field, and the lizardlike hiss of knives being sharpened broke the calls of the many birds that flitted about.

  Entreri spotted Jarlaxle at one such breakfast fire a few dozen yards to the side. The drow stood amidst several tough-looking characters: a pair of men who looked as if they could be brothers—or father and son possibly, since one had hair more gray than black—a dwarf with half his beard torn away, and an elf female who wore her golden hair braided all the way down her back. Entreri could tell by their posture that the four weren’t overly confident in the unexpected presence of a dark elf. The positioning of their arms, the slight turn of their shoulders, showed that to a one they were ready for a quick defensive reaction should the drow make any unexpected movements.

  Even so, it appeared as if the charming Jarlaxle was wearing away those defenses. Entreri watched as the dark elf dipped a polite bow, pulling off his grand hat and sweeping the ground. His every movement showed an unthreatening posture, keeping his hands in clear sight at all times.

  A few moments later, Entreri could only chuckle as those around Jarlaxle began to laugh—presumably at a joke the drow had told. Entreri watched, his expression caught somewhere between envy and admiration, as the elf female began to lean toward Jarlaxle, her posture clearly revealing her increasing interest in him.

  Jarlaxle reached out to the dwarf and manipulated his hand to make it seem as if he had just taken a coin out of the diminutive fellow’s ear. That brought a moment of confusion, where all four of the onlookers reflexively brought a hand to their respective belt pouches, but it was quickly replaced by howls of laughter, with the younger of the men slapping the dwarf on the back of his head.

  The mirth and Entreri’s attention were stolen when the thunder of hooves turned the attention of all of them to the north.

  A small but powerful black horse charged past the tents, silver armor strapped all about its flanks and chest. Its rider was similarly armored in shining silver plates, decorated with flowing carvings and delicate designs. The knight wore a great helm, flat-topped and plumed with a red feather on the left-hand side. As the horse passed Entreri’s position, he noted a well-adorned battle-axe strapped at the side of the thick, sturdy saddle.

  The horse skidded to a stop right in front of Jarlaxle and his four companions, and in that same fluid motion the rider slid down to stand facing the drow.

  Entreri eased his way over, expecting trouble.

  He wondered if the newcomer, tall but slender, might have some elf blood, but when the helm came off and a thick shock of long, fiery red hair fell free, tumbling down her back, Entreri realized the truth of it.

  He picked up his pace and moved within earshot and also to get a better look
at her face, and what he saw surely intrigued him. Freckled and dimpled, the knight’s complexion clashed with her attire, for it did not seem to fit the garb of a warrior. By the way she stood, and the way she had ridden and dismounted so gracefully despite her heavy armor, Entreri could see that she was seasoned and tough—when she had to be, he realized. But those features also told him that there was another side to her, one he might like to explore.

  The assassin pulled up short and considered his own thoughts, surprised by his interest.

  “So the rumors are true,” the woman said, and he was close enough to hear. “A drow elf.”

  “My reputation precedes me,” Jarlaxle said. He flashed a disarming grin and dipped another of his patented bows. “Jarlaxle, at your service, milady.”

  “Your reputation?” the woman scoffed. “Nay, dark-skinned one. A hundred whispers speak of you, rumors of the dastardly deeds we can expect from you, certainly, but nothing of your reputation.”

  “I see. And so you have come to verify that reputation?”

  “To witness a dark elf in our midst,” the woman replied. “I have never seen such a creature as you.”

  “And do I meet with your approval?”

  The woman narrowed her eyes and began to slowly circle the drow.

  “Your race evokes images of ferocity, and yet you seem a frail thing. I am told that I should be wary—terrified, even—and yet I find myself less than impressed by your stature and your hardly-imposing posture.”

  “Aye, but watch his hands,” the dwarf chimed in. “He’s a clever one with them slender fingers, don’t ye doubt.”

  “A cutpurse?” she asked.

  “Madame, you insult me.”

  “I ask of you, and I expect an honest answer,” she retorted, a tremor of anger sliding into the background of her solid but melodious voice. “Many in the Fugue are known cutpurses who have come here by court edict, to work the wilderness of Vaasa and redeem themselves of their light-fingered sins.”

  “But I am a drow,” Jarlaxle replied. “Do you think there are enough monsters in all of Vaasa that I might redeem the reputation of my heritage?”