The halfling straightened and puffed out his chest with pride, all the answer the companions needed.
“Then you must dine with us,” said Jarlaxle. “You must! I …” He paused and gave Entreri a hard look. “We,” he corrected, “insist.”
Again the hard look, and from that prodding, he did manage to pry a simple “Indeed” out of the assassin.
Hobart looked around at his companions, most of them openly salivating.
“Always could use a good meal after a battle,” he remarked.
“Or before,” said another of the troupe.
“Or during,” came a deadpan from Jarlaxle’s side, and the drow’s face erupted with a smile as he regarded Entreri.
“Charm is a learned skill,” Jarlaxle whispered through his grin. “So is murder,” the human whispered back.
Entreri wasn’t exactly comfortable sitting in a camp with dozens of drunken halflings. He couldn’t deny that the ale was good, though, and few races in all the Realms could put out a better selection of tasty meats than the halflings, though the food from their packs hardly matched the feast Jarlaxle had magically summoned. Entreri remained silent throughout the meal, enjoying the fine food and wine, and taking the measure of his hosts. His companion, though, was not so quiet, prodding Hobart and the others for tales of adventure and battle.
The halflings were more than willing to comply. They spoke of their rise to fame, when King Gareth first claimed the throne and the Bloodstone Lands were even wilder than their present state.
“It is unusual, is it not, for members of your race to prefer the road and battle to comfortable homes?” Jarlaxle asked.
“That’s the reputation,” Hobart admitted.
“And we’re knowing well the reputation of dark elves,” said another of the troupe, and all of the diminutive warriors laughed, several raising flagons in toast.
“Aye,” said Hobart, “and if we’re to believe that reputation, we should have killed you out on the slopes, yes?”
“To warrior halfling adventurers,” Jarlaxle offered, lifting his flagon of pale ale.
Hobart grinned. “Aye, and to all those who rise above the limitations of their ancestors.”
“Huzzah!” all the other halflings cheered.
They drank and toasted some more, and some more, and just when Entreri thought the meal complete, the main chef, a chubby fellow named Rockney Hamsukker called out that the lamb was done.
That brought more cheers and more toasts, and more—much more—food.
The sun was long gone and still they ate, and Jarlaxle began to prod Hobart again about their exploits. Story after story of goblins and orcs falling to the Kneebreakers ensued, with Hobart even revealing the variations on the “swarm,” the “weave,” and the “front-on wallop,” as he named the Kneebreaker battle tactics.
“Bah,” Jarlaxle snorted. “With goblins and orcs, are tactics even necessary? Hardly worthy opponents.”
The camp went silent, and a scowl spread over Hobart’s face. Behind him, another Kneebreaker stood and dangled his missile weapon, a pair of iron balls fastened to a length of cord for the outsiders to clearly see.
Entreri stopped his eating and stared hard at that threatening halfling, quickly surmising his optimum route of attack to inflict the greatest possible damage on the largest number of enemies.
“In numbers, of course,” Jarlaxle clarified. “For most groups, numbers of goblinkin could prove troublesome. But I have watched you in battle, you forget?”
Hobart’s large brown eyes narrowed.
“After your display on the stony field, good sir Hobart, you will have a difficult time of convincing me that any but a great number of goblinkin could prove of consequence to the Kneebreakers. Did those last goblins even manage a single strike against your riders?”
“We had some wounded,” Hobart reminded him.
“More by chance than purpose.”
“The ground favored our tactics,” Hobart explained.
“True enough,” Jarlaxle conceded. “But am I to believe that a troupe so precise as your own could not easily adapt to nearly any terrain?”
“I work very hard to remind my soldiers that we live on the precipice of disaster,” Hobart declared. “We are one mistake from utter ruin.”
“The warrior’s edge, indeed,” said the drow. “I do not underestimate your victories, of course, but I know there is more.”
Hobart hooked his thick thumbs into the sides of his shining plate mail breastplate.
“We’ve been out a long stretch,” he explained. “ ’Twas our goal to return to the Vaasan Gate with enough ears to empty Commander Ellery’s coffers.”
“Bah, but you’re just looking to empty Ellery from her breeches!” another halfling said, and many chortled with amusement.
Hobart looked around, grinning, at his companions, who murmured and nodded.
“And so we shall—the coffers, I mean.”
The halfling leader snapped his stubby fingers in the air and a nervous, skinny fellow at Jarlaxle and Entreri’s right scrambled about, finally producing a large bag. He looked at Hobart, returned the leader’s continuing smile, then overturned the bag, dumping a hundred ears, ranging in size from the human-sized goblins’ ears, several that belonged to creatures as large as ogres, and a pair so enormous Jarlaxle could have worn either as a hat.
Hobart launched back into his tales, telling of a confrontation with a trio of ogres and another ogre pair in the company of some hobgoblins. He raised his voice, almost as a bard might sing the tale, when he reached the climactic events, and the Kneebreakers all around him began to cheer wildly. One halfling pair stood up and re-enacted the battle scene, the giant imposter leaping up on a rock to tower over his foes.
Despite himself, Artemis Entreri could not help but smile. The movements of the halflings, the passion, the food, the drink, all of it, reminded him so much of some of his closest friends back in Calimport, of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies and fat Dondon.
The giant died in Hobart’s tale—and the halfling giant died on the rock with great dramatic flourish—and the entire troupe took up the chant of, “Kneebreakers! Kneebreakers!”
They danced, they sang, they cheered, they ate, and they drank. On it went, long into the night.
Artemis Entreri had perfected the art of sleeping light many years before. The man could not be caught by surprise, even when he was apparently sound asleep. Thus, the stirring of his partner had him wide awake in moments, still some time before the dawn. All around them, the Kneebreakers snored and grumbled in their dreams, and the few who had been posted as sentries showed no more signs of awareness.
Jarlaxle looked at Entreri and winked, and the assassin nodded curiously. He followed the drow to the sleeping halfling with the bag of ears, which was set amid several other bags of equal or larger size next to the halfling that served as the pack mule for the Kneebreakers. With a flick of his long, dexterous fingers, Jarlaxle untied the bag of ears. He slid it out slowly then moved silently out of camp, the equally quiet Entreri close behind. Getting past the guards without being noticed was no more difficult than passing a pile of stones without having them shout out.
The pair came to a clearing under the light of the waning moon. Jarlaxle popped a button off of his fine waistcoat, grinning at Entreri all the while. He pinched it between his fingers, then snapped his wrist three times in rapid succession.
Entreri was hardly surprised when the button elongated and widened, and its bottom dropped nearly to the ground, so that it looked as if Jarlaxle was holding a stovepipe hat that would fit a mountain giant.
With a nod from Jarlaxle, Entreri overturned the bag of ears and began scooping them into Jarlaxle’s magical button bag. The drow stopped him a couple of times, indicating that he should leave a few, including one of the giant ears.
A snap of Jarlaxle’s wrist then returned his magical bag to its inauspicious button form, and he put it on the waistcoat in its proper place and ta
pped it hard, its magic re-securing it to the material. He motioned for Entreri to move away with him then produced, out of thin air of course, a dust broom. He brushed away their tracks.
Entreri started back toward the halfling encampment, but Jarlaxle grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him. The drow offered a knowing wink and drew a slender wand from an inside pocket of his great traveling cloak. He pointed the wand at the discarded bag and the few ears, then spoke a command word.
A soft popping sound ensued, accompanied by a puff of smoke, and when it cleared, standing in place of the smoke was a small wolf.
“Enjoy your meal,” Jarlaxle instructed the canine, and he turned and headed back to camp, Entreri right behind. The assassin glanced back often, to see the summoned wolf tearing at the ears, then picking up the bag and shaking it all about, shredding it.
Jarlaxle kept going, but Entreri paused a bit longer. The wolf scrambled around, seeming very annoyed at being deprived of a further meal, Entreri reasoned, for it began to disintegrate, its temporary magic expended, reducing it to a cloud of drifting smoke.
The assassin could only stare in wonder.
They had barely settled back into their blankets when the first rays of dawn peeked over the eastern horizon. Still, many hours were to pass before the halflings truly stirred, and Entreri found some more much-needed sleep.
The sudden tumult in camp awakened him around highsun. He groggily lifted up on his elbows, glancing around in amusement at the frantic halflings scrambling to and fro. They lifted stones and kicked remnants of the night’s fire aside. They peeked under the pant legs of comrades, and often got kicked for their foolishness.
“There is a problem, I presume,” Entreri remarked to Jarlaxle, who sat up and stretched the weariness from his body.
“I do believe our little friends have misplaced something. And with all the unorganized commotion, I suspect they’ll be long in finding it.”
“Because a bag of ears would hear them coming,” said Entreri, his voice as dry as ever.
Jarlaxle laughed heartily. “I do believe that you are beginning to figure it all out, my friend, this journey we call life.”
“That is what frightens me most of all.”
The two went silent when they noted Hobart and a trio of very serious looking fellows staring hard at them. In procession, with the three others falling respectfully two steps behind the Kneebreaker commander, the group approached.
“Suspicion falls upon us,” Jarlaxle remarked. “Ah, the intrigue!”
“A fine and good morning to you, masters Jarlaxle and Entreri,” Hobart greeted, and there was nothing jovial about his tone. “You slept well, I presume.”
“You would be presuming much, then,” said Entreri.
“My friend here, he does not much enjoy discomfort,” explained Jarlaxle. “You would not know it from his looks or his reputation, but he is, I fear, a bit of a fop.”
“Every insult duly noted,” Entreri said under his breath.
Jarlaxle winked at him.
“An extra twist of the blade, you see,” Entreri promised.
“Am I interrupting something?” Hobart asked.
“Nothing you would not be interrupting in any case if you ever deign to speak to us,” said Entreri.
The halfling nodded then looked at Entreri curiously, then similarly at Jarlaxle, then turned to regard his friends. All four shrugged in unison.
“Did you sleep the night through?” Hobart asked.
“And most of the morning, it would seem,” Jarlaxle answered.
“Bah, ’tis still early.”
“Good sir halfling, I do believe the sun is at its zenith,” said the drow.
“As I said,” Hobart remarked. “Goblin hunting’s best done at twilight. Ugly little things get confident when the sun wanes, of course. Not that they ever have any reason to be confident.”
“Not with your great skill against them, to be sure.”
Hobart eyed the drow with clear suspicion. “We’re missing something,” he explained. “Something you’d be interested in.”
Jarlaxle glanced Entreri’s way, his expression not quite innocent and wide-eyed, but more curious than anything else—the exact look one would expect from someone intrigued but fully ignorant of the theft. Entreri had to fight hard to keep his own disinterested look about him, for he was quite amused at how perfectly Jarlaxle could play the liars’ game.
“Our bag of ears,” said Hobart.
Jarlaxle blew a long sigh. “That is troubling.”
“And you will understand why we have to search you?”
“And our bedrolls, of course,” said the drow, and he stepped back and held his cloak out wide to either side.
“We’d see it if it was on you,” said Hobart, “unless it was magically stored or disguised.” He motioned to one of the halflings behind him, a studious looking fellow with wide eyes, which he blinked continually, and thin brown hair sharply parted and pushed to one side. Seeming more a scholar than a warrior, the little one drew out a long blue wand.
“To detect magic, I presume,” Jarlaxle remarked.
Hobart nodded. “Step apart, please.”
Entreri glanced at Jarlaxle then back to the halfling. With a shrug he took a wide step to the side.
The halfling pointed his wand, whispered a command, and a glow engulfed Entreri for just a moment then was gone.
The halfling stood there studying the assassin, and his wide eyes kept going to Entreri’s belt, to the jeweled dagger on one hip then to the sword, powerfully enchanted, on the other. The halfling’s face twisted and contorted, and he trembled.
“You would not want either blade to strike you, of course,” said Jarlaxle, catching on to the silent exchange where the wand was clueing the little wizard in to just how potent the human’s weapons truly were.
“You all right?” Hobart asked, and though the wand-wielder could hardly draw a breath, he nodded.
“Turn around, then,” Hobart bid Entreri, and the assassin did as he was asked, even lifting his cloak so the prying little scholar could get a complete picture.
A few moments later, the wand-wielder looked at Hobart and shook his head.
Hobart held his hand out toward Jarlaxle, and the other halfling lifted his wand. He spoke the command once more and the soft glow settled over a grinning Jarlaxle.
The wand-wielder squealed and fell back, shading his eyes.
“What?” Hobart asked.
The other one stammered and sputtered, his lips flapping, and kept his free hand up before him.
Entreri chuckled. He could only imagine the blinding glow of magic that one saw upon the person of Jarlaxle!
“It’s not … there’s … I mean … never before … not in King Gareth’s own …”
“What?” Hobart demanded.
The other shook his head so rapidly that he nearly knocked himself over.
“Concentrate!” demanded the Kneebreaker commander. “You know what you’re looking for!”
“But … but … but …” the halfling managed to say through his flapping lips.
Jarlaxle lifted his cloak and slowly turned, and the poor halfling shielded his eyes even more.
“On his belt!” the little one squealed as he fell away with a gasp. His two companions caught him before he tumbled, and steadied him, straightening him and brushing him off. “He has an item of holding on his belt,” the halfling told Hobart when he’d finally regained his composure. “And another in his hat.”
Hobart turned a wary eye on Jarlaxle.
The drow, grinning with confidence, unfastened his belt—with a command word, not through any mundane buckle—and slid the large pouch free, holding it up before him.
“This is your point of reference, yes?” he asked the wand-wielder, who nodded.
“I am found out, then,” Jarlaxle said dramatically, and he sighed.
Hobart scowled.
“A simple pouch of holding,” the drow explained, and
tossed it to Hobart. “But take care, for within lies my precious Cormyrean brandy. I know, I know, I should have shared it with you, but you are so many, and I feared its potent effect on ones so little.”
Hobart pulled the bottle from the pouch and held it up to read the label. His expression one of great approval, he slid it back into the pouch. Then he rummaged through the rest of the magical container, nearly climbing in at one point.
“We share the brandy, you and I, a bit later?” Jarlaxle proposed when Hobart was done with the pouch.
“Or if that hat of yours is holding my ears, I take it for my own, drink just enough to quench my thirst and use the rest as an aid in lighting your funeral pyre.”
Jarlaxle laughed aloud. “I do so love that you speak directly, good Sir Bracegirdle!” he said.
He bowed and removed his hat, brushing it across the ground, then spun it to Hobart.
The halfling started to fiddle with it, but Jarlaxle stopped him with a sharp warning.
“Return my pouch first,” he said, and the four halflings looked at him hard. “You do not wish to be tinkering with two items of extra-dimensional nature.”
“Rift. Astral. Bad,” Entreri explained.
Hobart stared at him then at the amused drow and tossed the pouch back to Jarlaxle. The Kneebreaker commander began inspecting the great, wide-brimmed hat, and after a moment, discovered that he could peel back the underside of its peak.
“A false compartment?” he asked.
“In a sense,” Jarlaxle admitted, and Hobart’s expression grew curious as the flap of cloth came out fully in his hand, leaving the underside of the peak intact, with no compartment revealed. The halfling then held up the piece of black cloth, a circular swatch perhaps half a foot in diameter.
Hobart looked at it, looked around, casually shrugged, and shook his head. He tossed the seemingly benign thing over his shoulder.
“No!” Jarlaxle cried, but too late, for the spinning cloth disk elongate in the air and fell at the feet of Hobart’s three companions, widening and opening into a ten foot hole.
All three squealed and tumbled in.
Jarlaxle put his hands to his face.
Promise of the Witch-King Page 10
