Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I care nothing for your heritage.”

  “Then I am but a curiosity. Ah, but you so wound me again.”

  “A feeling you would do well to acquaint yourself with. You still have not answered my question.”

  Jarlaxle tilted his head and put on a sly grin.

  “Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.

  “The way you ask makes me believe that I should.”

  The woman looked past the drow to the female elf.

  “Commander Ellery, of the Army of Bloodstone, Vaasan Gate,” the elf recited without pause.

  “My full name.”

  The elf stuttered and seemed at a loss.

  “I am Commander Ellery Tranth Dopray Kierney Dragonsbane Peidopare,” the woman said, her tone even more imperious than before.

  “Labeling your possessions must prove a chore,” the drow said dryly, but the woman ignored him.

  “I claim Baron Tranth as my uncle; Lady Christine Dragonsbane, Queen of Damara, as my cousin; and King Gareth Dragonsbane himself as my second cousin, once removed.”

  “Lady Christine and King Gareth?”

  The woman squared her shoulders and her jaw.

  “Cousins in opposite directions, I would hope,” said Jarlaxle.

  That brought a less imperious and more curious stare.

  “I would hate to think that the future princes and princesses of Damara might carry on their shoulders a second head or six fingers on each hand, after all,” the drow explained, and the curious look turned darker. “Ah, but the ways of royalty.”

  “You mock the man who chased the demon lord Orcus across the planes of existence?”

  “Mock him?” Jarlaxle asked, bringing one hand to his chest and looking as if he had just been unexpectedly slapped. “Nothing could be farther from the truth, good Commander Ellery. I express relief that while you claim blood relations to both, their own ties are not so close. You see?”

  She steeled her gaze. “I will learn of your reputation,” she promised.

  “You will wish then that you included D’aerthe in your collection of names, I assure you,” the drow replied.

  “Jarlaxle D’aerthe?”

  “At your service,” he said, sweeping into yet another bow.

  “And you will be watched closely, drow,” Commander Ellery went on. “If your fingers get too clever, or your mannerisms too disruptive, you will learn the weight of Bloodstone judgment.”

  “As you will,” Jarlaxle conceded.

  As Ellery turned to leave, he dipped yet another bow. He managed to glance over at Entreri as he did, offering a quick wink and the flash of a smile.

  “I leave you to your meal,” Ellery said to the other four, pulling herself back into her saddle. “Choose wisely the company you keep when you venture forth into Vaasa. Far too many already lay dead on that wasteland tundra, and far too many lay dead because they did not surround themselves with reliable companions.”

  “I will heed well your words,” Jarlaxle was quick to reply, though they had not been aimed at him. “I was growing a bit leery of the short one anyway.”

  “Hey!” said the dwarf, and Jarlaxle flashed him that disarming grin.

  Entreri turned his attention from the group of five to watch the woman ride away, noting most of all the respectful reactions to her from all she passed.

  “She is a formidable one,” he said when Jarlaxle appeared at his side a moment later.

  “Dangerous and full of fire,” Jarlaxle agreed.

  “I might have to kill her.”

  “I might have to bed her.”

  Entreri turned to regard the drow. Did anything ever unsettle him? “She is a relative of King Gareth,” Entreri reminded him.

  Jarlaxle rubbed his slender fingers over his chin, his eyes glued to the departing figure with obvious intrigue.

  He uttered only a single word in reply: “Dowry.”

  “Lady Ellery,” said Athrogate, a dwarf renowned in the underworld of Damara as a supreme killer. He wore his black beard parted in the middle, two long braids of straight hair running down to mid-chest, each tied off at the end with a band set with a trio of sparkling blue gemstones. His eyebrows were so bushy that they somewhat covered his almost-black eyes, and his ears so large that many speculated he would be able to fly if only he learned how to flap them. “ ‘E’s made hisself some fine company already. Be watchin’ that one, I’m tellin’ ye. Watchin’ or killin’ him, for if ye’re not, then he’s to be killin’ us, don’t ye doubt.”

  “It is an interesting turn, if it is anything at all beyond mere coincidence,” admitted Canthan Dolittle, a studious looking fellow with beady eyes and a long straight nose. His hair, as much gray as brown, was thin, with a large bald spot atop his head that had turned bright red from a recent sunburn. The nervous, slim fellow rubbed his fingertips together as he spoke, all the while subtly twitching.

  “To assume is to invite disaster,” the third and most impressive of the group advised. Most impressive to those who knew the truth of him, that is, for the archmage Knellict wore nondescript clothing, with his more prized possessions stored safely away back at the Citadel of Assassins.

  Athrogate licked his lips nervously as he regarded the mighty wizard, second only to Timoshenko, the Grandfather of Assassins, in that most notorious guild of killers. As an agent of Tightpurse, the leading thieves guild of Heliogabalus, Athrogate had been assigned to ride along with Jarlaxle and Entreri to Bloodstone Village, and to report to Canthan in the Fugue. He had been quite surprised to find Knellict at the camp. Few names in all the northern Realms inspired fear like that of the archmage of the Citadel of Assassins.

  “Have you learned any more of the drow?” Canthan asked. “We know of his dealings with Innkeeper Feepun and the murder of the shade, Rorli.”

  “And the murder of Feepun,” Knellict said.

  “You have proof it was brought about by these two?” a surprised Canthan asked.

  “You have proof it was not?”

  Canthan backed off, not wanting to anger the most dangerous man in the Bloodstone Lands.

  “Information of their whereabouts since the incident with Rorli has been incomplete,” Knellict admitted.

  “They been quiet since then from all that we’re seein’,” Athrogate replied, his tone revealing that he was eager to please. Though he was answering Canthan, his brown eyes kept darting over to regard Knellict. The archmage, however, quiet and calm, was simply impossible to read. “They done some dealin’s with a pair o’ intrestin’ lady pawnbrokers, but we ain’t seen ’em buy nothin’ worth nothin’. Might be that they be lookin’ more for lady charms than magic charms, if ye’re gettin’ me meanin’. Been known to fancy the ladies, them two be, especially the dark one.”

  Canthan glanced back at Knellict, who gave the slightest of nods.

  “Keep close and keep wary,” Canthan told Athrogate. “If you need us, place your wash-clothes as we agreed and we will seek you out.”

  “And if yerself’s needing me?”

  “We will find you, do not doubt,” Knellict intervened.

  The archmage’s tone was too even, too controlled, and despite a desire to hold a tough facade, Athrogate shuddered. He nearly fell over as he bobbed in a bow then scurried away, ducking from shadow to shadow.

  “I sense something more about the human,” Knellict remarked when he and Canthan were alone.

  “I expect they are both formidable.”

  “Deserving of our respect, indeed,” Knellict agreed. “And requiring more eyes than those of the dolt Athrogate.”

  “I am already at work on the task,” Canthan assured his superior.

  Knellict gave a slight nod but kept staring across the tent city at Jarlaxle and Entreri as they walked back to their campsite.

  Tightpurse had been ready to move on the pair back in Heliogabalus and would have—likely to disastrous results for Tightpurse, Knellict figured—had not the Citadel of Assassins intervened. At the prodd
ing of Knellict, Timoshenko had decided to pay heed to the pair, particularly to that most unusual dark elf who had so suddenly appeared in their midst. Drow were not a common sight on the surface of Toril, and less common in the Bloodstone Lands than in most other regions. Less common in Damara, at least, a land that was quickly moving toward stable law and order under the reign of Gareth Dragonsbane and his band of mighty heroes. Zhengyi had been thrown down, flights of dragons destroyed, and the demon lord Orcus’s own wand had been blasted into nothingness. Gareth was only growing stronger, the tentacles of his organizations stretching more ominously in the consolidation of Damara’s various feudal lords. He had made no secret of his desire to bring Vaasa under his control as well, uniting the two lands as the single kingdom of Bloodstone. To that end, King Gareth’s Spysong network of scouts was growing more elaborate with each passing day.

  Timoshenko and Knellict suspected that Vaasa would indeed soon be tamed, and were that to occur, would there remain in all of the region a place for the Citadel of Assassins?

  Knellict did well to hide his frown as he considered yet again the continuing trends in the Bloodstone Lands. His eyes did flash briefly as he watched the pair, drow and human, disappear into their tent.

  There was a different feeling to the air the moment Jarlaxle and Entreri walked out of the Vaasan side of the wall fortress. The musty scent of peat and thawing decay filled the nostrils of the two, carried on a stiff breeze that held a chilly bite, though summer was still in force.

  “She’s blowing strong off the Great Glacier today,” Entreri had heard one of the guards remark.

  He could feel the bone-catching chill as the wind gathered the moisture from the sun-softened ice and lifted it across the muddy Vaasan plain.

  “A remarkable place,” Jarlaxle noted, scanning the sea of empty brown from under the wide brim of his outrageous hat. “I would send armies forth to do battle to claim this paradise.”

  The drow’s sarcasm didn’t sit well with Entreri. He couldn’t agree more with the dreary assessment. “Then why are we here?”

  “I have already explained that in full.”

  “You hold to a strange understanding of the term. ‘in full.’ ”

  Jarlaxle didn’t look at him, but Entreri took some satisfaction in the drow’s grin.

  “By that, I presume that you mean you have explained it as well as you believe I need to know,” Entreri went on.

  “Sometimes the sweetest juices can be found buried within the most mundane of fruits.”

  Entreri glanced back at the wall and let it go at that. They had come out on a “day jaunt,” as such excursions were known at the Vaasan Gate, a quick scout and strike mission. All newcomers to the Vaasan Gate were given such assignments, allowing them to get a feel for the tundra. When first the call had gone out for adventurers, there had been no guidance offered for their excursions into the wild. Many had struck right out from the gate and deep into Vaasa, never to be heard from again. But the Army of Bloodstone was offering more instruction and control, and offering it in a way more mandatory than suggestive.

  Entreri wasn’t fond of such rules, but neither did he hold much desire to strike out any distance from the gate. He did not wish to find his end seeking the bottom of a bottomless bog.

  Jarlaxle turned slowly in a circle, seeming to sniff the air as he did. When he came full around, pointing again to the northeast, the general direction of the far-distant Great Glacier, he nodded and tipped his hat.

  “This way, I think,” the drow said.

  Jarlaxle started off, and with a shrug, having no better option, Entreri started after him.

  They stayed among the rocky foothills of the Galena Mountains, not wanting to try the muddy, flat ground. That course left them more vulnerable to goblin ambushes, but the pair were not particularly afraid of doing battle against such creatures.

  “I thought there were monsters aplenty to be found and vanquished here,” Entreri remarked after an hour of trudging around gray stones and across patches of cold standing water. “That is what the posted notices in Heliogabalus claimed, is it not?”

  “Twenty gold pieces a day,” Jarlaxle added. “And all for the pleasure of killing ten goblins. Yes, that was the sum of it, and perhaps the lucrative bounty proved quite effective. Could it be that all the lands about the gate have been cleared?”

  “If we have to trek for miles across this wilderness, then my road is back to the south,” said Entreri.

  “Ever the optimist.”

  “Ever the obvious.”

  Jarlaxle laughed and adjusted his great hat. “Not for many more miles,” he said. “Did you not notice the clear sign of adversaries?”

  Entreri offered a skeptical stare.

  “A print beside the last puddle,” Jarlaxle explained.

  “That could be days old.”

  “It is my understanding that such things are not so lasting here on the surface,” the drow replied. “In the Underdark, a boot print in soft ground might be a millennium old, but up here.…”

  Entreri shrugged.

  “I thought you were famous for your ability to hunt down enemies.”

  “That comes from knowing the ways of folk, not the signs on the ground. I find my enemies through the information I glean from those who have seen them.”

  “Information gathered at the tip of your dagger, no doubt.”

  “Whatever works. But I do not normally hunt the wilderness in pursuit of monsters.”

  “Yet you are no stranger to the signs of such wild places,” said the drow. “You know a print.”

  “I know that something made an impression near the puddle,” Entreri clarified. “It might have been today, or it might have been several days ago—anytime since the last rain. And I know not what made it.”

  “We are in goblin lands,” Jarlaxle interrupted. “The posted notices told me as much.”

  “We are in lands full of people pursuing goblins,” Entreri reminded.

  “Ever the obvious,” the drow said.

  Entreri scowled at him.

  They walked for a few hours, then as storm clouds gathered in the north, they turned back to the Vaasan Gate. They made it soon after sunset, and after a bit of arguing with the new sentries, managed to convince them that they, including the dark elf, had left that same gate earlier in the day and should be re-admitted without such lengthy questioning.

  Moving through the tight, well-constructed, dark brick corridors, past the eyes of many suspicious guards, Entreri turned for the main hall that would take them back to the Fugue and their tent.

  “Not just yet,” Jarlaxle bade him. “There are pleasures a’many to be found here, so I have been told.”

  “And goblins a’many to kill out there, so you’ve been told.”

  “It never ends, I see.”

  Entreri just stood at the end of the corridor, the reflection of distant campfires twinkling in Jarlaxle’s eyes as he looked past his scowling friend.

  “Have you no sense of adventure?” the drow asked.

  “We’ve been over this too many times.”

  “And yet still you scowl, and you doubt, and you grump about.”

  “I have never been fond of spending my days walking across muddy trails.”

  “Those trails will lead us to great things,” Jarlaxle said. “I promise.”

  “Perhaps when you tell me of them, my mood will improve,” Entreri replied, and the dark elf smiled wide.

  “These corridors might lead us to great things, as well,” the drow answered. “And I think I need not tell you of those.”

  Entreri glanced back over his shoulder out at the campfires through the distant, opened doors. He chuckled quietly as he turned back to Jarlaxle, for he knew that resistance was hopeless against that one’s unending stream of persuasion. He waved a hand, indicating that Jarlaxle should lead on, then moved along behind him.

  There were many establishments—craftsmen, suppliers, but mostly taverns—in th
e Vaasan Gate. Merchants and entrepreneurs had been quick to the call of Gareth Dragonsbane, knowing that the hearty adventurers who went out from the wall would often be well-rewarded upon their return, given the substantial bounty on the ears of goblins, orcs, ogres and other monsters. So too had the ladies of the evening come, displaying their wares in every tavern, often congregating around the many gamblers who sought to take the recent earnings from foolish and prideful adventurers.

  All the taverns were much the same, so the pair moved into the first in line. The sign on the wall beside the doorway read: “Muddy Boots and Bloody Blades,” but someone had gouged a line across it and whittled in: “Muddy Blades and Bloody Boots” underneath, to reflect the frustrations of late in even finding monsters to kill.

  Jarlaxle and Entreri moved through the crowded room, the drow drawing more than a few uncomfortable stares as he went. They split up as they came upon a table set with four chairs where only two men were sitting, with Jarlaxle approaching and Entreri melting back in to the crowd.

  “May I join you?” the drow asked.

  Looks both horrified and threatening came back at him. “We’re waiting on two more,” one man answered.

  Jarlaxle pulled up a chair. “Very well, then,” he said. “A place to rest my weary feet for just a moment then. When your friends arrive, I will take my leave.”

  The two men glanced at each other.

  “Be gone now!” one snarled, coming forward in his chair, teeth bared as if he meant to bite the dark elf.

  Next to him, his friend put on an equally threatening glower, and crossed his large arms over his strong chest, expression locked in a narrow-eyed gaze. His eyes widened quickly, though, and his arms slid out to either side—slow, unthreatening—when he felt the tip of a dagger against the small of his back.

  The hard expression on the man who’d leaned toward Jarlaxle similarly melted, for under the table, the drow had drawn a tiny dagger, and though he couldn’t reach across with that particular weapon, with no more than a thought, he had urged the enchanted dirk to elongate. Thus, while Jarlaxle hadn’t even leaned forward in his chair, and while his arms had not come ahead in the least, the threatening rogue felt the blade tip quite clearly, prodding against his belly.