Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Blackfire,” Mariabronne said with a deep exhale, and he worked very hard to calm himself.

  He reminded himself of the urgency of his mission, and he moved slowly and deliberately, fully on guard and with his hand on the pommel of Bayurel, his renowned bastard sword, a solid, thick blade enchanted with a special hatred for giantkin.

  Mariabronne swallowed hard when he came astride the nightmare. He gingerly reached up for the creature’s mane, which itself seemed as if it was nothing more than living black fire. He grabbed tightly when he felt its solidity, and with one fluid move, launched himself upon the nightmare’s back. Blackfire wasted no time in rearing and snorting fire, but Mariabronne was no novice to riding, and he held firm his seat.

  Soon he was galloping the fiery steed hard to the south, the shadows of the Galenas bordering him on his left, the city of Palishchuk and the Great Glacier fast receding behind him. It was normally a five-day journey, but the nightmare didn’t need to rest, didn’t let up galloping at all. Miles rolled out behind the ranger. He took no heed of threats off to the side of the trail—a goblin campfire or the rumble of a tundra yeti—but just put his head down and let the nightmare speed him past.

  After several hours, Mariabronne’s arms and legs ached from the strain, but all he had to do was conjure an image of that magical book and the structure it was growing, all he had to do was imagine the danger that creation of the Witch-King might present, to push past his pain and hold fast his seat.

  He found that Wingham’s estimation was a bit optimistic, however, for he felt the weakening of the magic in his mount as the eastern sky began to brighten with the onset of dawn. No stranger to the wilderness, Mariabronne pulled up in his ride and scanned the area about him, quickly discerning some promising spots for him to set a camp. Almost as soon as he dismounted, the nightmare became a wavering black flame then disappeared entirely.

  Mariabronne took the obsidian figurine from the ground and felt its weight in his hand. It seemed lighter to him, drained of substance, but even as he stood there pondering it, he felt a slight shift as the weight increased and its magic began to gather. In that way the figurine would tell him when he could call upon its powers again.

  The ranger reconnoitered the area, enjoyed a meal of dried bread and salted meat then settled in for some much needed sleep.

  He awoke soon after mid-day and immediately went to the figurine. It was not yet fully recovered, he recognized, but he understood implicitly that he could indeed summon the nightmare if he so desired. He stepped back and surveyed the area more carefully under the full light of day. He glanced both north and south, measuring his progress. He had covered nearly half the ground to the Vaasan gate in a single night’s ride—thrice the distance he could have expected with a living horse on the difficult broken ground, even if he had been riding during the daylight hours.

  Mariabronne nodded, glanced at the figurine, and replaced it in his pouch. He resisted the stubborn resolve to begin hiking toward the Vaasan Gate and instead forced himself to rest some more, to take a second meal, and to go through a regimen of gently stretching and preparing his muscles for another night’s long ride. Before the last rays of day disappeared behind the Vaasan plain in the west, the ranger was back upon the hellish steed, charging hard to the south.

  He made the great fortress, again without incident, just before the next dawn.

  Recognized and always applauded by the guards of the Army of Bloodstone, Mariabronne found himself sharing breakfast with the Honorable General Dannaway Bridgestone Tranth, brother of the great Baron Tranth who had stood beside Gareth in the war with the Witch-King. Rising more on his family’s reputation than through any deed, Dannaway served as both military commander and mayor of the eclectic community of the Vaasan Gate and the Fugue.

  Normally haughty and superior-minded, Dannaway carried no such pretensions in his conversations with Mariabronne the Rover. The ranger’s fame had more than made him worthy to eat breakfast with the Honorable General, so Dannaway believed, and that was a place of honor that Dannaway reserved for very few people.

  For his part, and though he never understood the need of more than a single eating utensil, Mariabronne knew how to play the game of royalty. The renowned warrior, often called the Tamer of Vaasa, had oft dined with King Gareth and Lady Christine at their grand Court in Bloodstone Village and at the second palace in Heliogabalus. He had never been fond of the pretension and the elevation of class, but he understood the practicality, even necessity, of such stratification in a region so long battered by conflict.

  He also understood that his exploits had put him in position to continue to better the region, as with this very moment, as he recounted the happenings in Palishchuk to the plump and aging Honorable General. Soon after he had begun offering the details, Dannaway summoned his niece, Commander Ellery, to join them.

  Dannaway gave a great, resigned sigh, a dramatic flourish, as Mariabronne finished his tale.

  “The curse of Zhengyi will linger on throughout my lifetime and those of my children, and those of their children, I do fear,” he said. “These annoyances are not uncommon, it seems.”

  “Let us pray that it is no more than an annoyance,” said Mariabronne.

  “We have trod this path many times before,” Dannaway reminded him, and if the general was at all concerned, he did not show it. “Need I remind you of the grand dragon statue that grew to enormous proportions in the bog north of Darmshall, and … what? Sank into the bog, I believe.

  “And let us not forget the gem-studded belt discovered by that poor young man on the northern slopes of the Galenas,” Dannaway went on. “Yes, how was he to know that the plain gray stone he found the belt wrapped around, and carelessly threw aside after strapping on the belt, was actually the magical trigger for the twenty-five fireball-enchanted rubies set into the belt? Were it not for the witnesses—his fellow adventurers watching him from a nearby ridge—we might never have known the truth of that Zhengyian relic. There really wasn’t enough left of the poor man to identify.”

  “There really wasn’t anything left of the man at all,” Ellery added.

  A mixture of emotions engulfed Mariabronne as he listened to Dannaway’s recounting. He didn’t want to minimize the potential danger growing just north of Palishchuk, but on the other hand he was somewhat relieved to recall these other incidents of Zhengyian leftovers, tragic though several had been. For none of the many incidents had foretold doom on any great scale, a return of Zhengyi or the darkness that had covered the Bloodstone Lands until only eleven years ago.

  “This is no minor enchantment, nor is it anything that will long remain unnoticed, I fear. King Gareth must react, and quickly,” the ranger said.

  Dannaway heaved another overly dramatic sigh, cast a plaintive look at Ellery, and said, “Assemble a company to ride with Mariabronne back to Palishchuk.”

  “Soldiers alone?” the woman replied, not a hint of fear or doubt in her strong, steady voice.

  “As you wish,” the general said.

  Ellery nodded and looked across at the ranger with undisguised curiosity. “Perhaps I will accompany you personally,” she said, drawing a look of surprise from her uncle. “It has been far too long since I have looked upon Palishchuk, in any case, nor have I visited Wingham’s troupe in more than a year.”

  “I would welcome your company, Commander,” Mariabronne replied, “but I would ask for more support.”

  Dannaway cut in, “You do not believe I would allow the Commander of the Vaasan Gate Militia to travel to the shadows of the Great Glacier alone, do you?”

  Mariabronne fell back as if wounded, though of course it was all a game.

  “The Rover,” Dannaway said slyly. “It is not a title easily earned, and you have earned it ten times over by all accounts.”

  “Honorable General, Mariabronne’s reputation …” Ellery started to intervene, apparently not catching on to the joke.

  Dannaway stopped her with
an upraised hand. “The Rover,” he said again. “It is the title of a rake, though an honorable one. But that is not my concern, my dear Ellery. I do not fear for you in Mariabronne’s bed, nor in the bed of any man. You are a Paladin of Bloodstone, after all.

  “Nay, the Rover is also a remark on the nature of this adventurer,” Dannaway went on, obviously missing Ellery’s sour expression. “Mariabronne is the scout who walks into a dragon’s lair to satisfy his curiosity. King Gareth would have used young Mariabronne to seek out Zhengyi, no doubt, except that the fool would have strolled right up to Zhengyi and asked him his name for confirmation. Fearless to the point of foolish, Mariabronne?”

  “Lack of confidence is not a trait I favor.”

  Dannaway laughed raucously at that then turned to Ellery. “Bring a small but powerful contingent with you, I beg. There are many dragon lairs rumored in the Palishchuk region.”

  Ellery looked at him long and hard for a time, as if trying to make sense of it all.

  “I have several in mind, soldiers and otherwise,” she said, and Mariabronne nodded his satisfaction.

  With another grin and bow to Dannaway, he took his leave so that he could rest up for the ride back to the north. He settled in to the complimentary room that was always waiting for him off the hallway that housed the garrison’s commanders. He fell asleep hoping that Dannaway’s casual attitude toward the construct was well-warranted.

  He slept uneasily though, for in his heart, Mariabronne suspected that this time the remnant of Zhengyi might be something more.

  You are a Paladin of Bloodstone, after all.

  Ellery couldn’t prevent a wince from tightening her features at that remark, for it was not yet true—and might never be, she knew, though many others, like Dannaway, apparently did not. Many in her family and among the nobles awaited the day when she would demonstrate her first miracle, laying on hands to heal the wounded, perhaps. None of them doubted it would happen soon, for the woman held a sterling reputation and was descended from a long line of such holy warriors.

  Ellery’s other friends, of course, knew better.

  Well away from the general, she moved from foot to foot, betraying her nervousness.

  “I can defeat him if need be,” she told the thin man standing in the shadow of the wall’s angular jag. “I have taken the measure of his skill and he is as formidable as you feared.”

  “Yet you believe you can kill him?”

  “Have you not trained me in exactly that art?” the woman replied. “One strike, fatal? One move, unstoppable?”

  “He is superior,” came the thin voice of the thin man, a scratching and wheezing sound, but strangely solid in its confident and deathly even tone.

  Ellery nodded and admitted, “Few would stand against him for long, true.”

  “But Ellery is among those few?”

  “I do not make that claim,” she replied, trying hard to not sound shaken. Then she added the reminder, as if to herself and not to the thin man, “My axe has served me well, served King Gareth well, and served you well.”

  That brought a laugh, again wheezy and thin, but again full of confidence—well-earned confidence, Ellery knew.

  “An unlikely continuum of service,” he observed. She could see the man’s smirk, stretching half out of the shadows. “You do not agree?” asked the thin man, and Ellery, too, smirked and found humor in the irony.

  Few would see the logic of her last statement, she realized, because few understood the nuance of politics and practicality in Damara and Vaasa.

  “Speak it plainly,” the thin man bade her. “If the need arises, you are confident that you can defeat the drow elf, Jarlaxle?”

  The woman straightened at the recriminating tone. She didn’t glance around nervously any longer, but stared hard at her counterpart.

  “He has a weakness,” she said. “I have seen it. I can exploit it. Yes. He will not be able to defeat that which you have trained me to execute.”

  The thin man replied, “Ever were you the fine student.”

  Emboldened, Ellery bowed at the compliment.

  “Let us hope it will not come to that,” the thin man went on. “But they are a hard pair to read, this drow and his human companion.”

  “They travel together and fight side by side, yet the human seems to hold the black-skinned one in contempt,” Ellery agreed. “But I see no weakness there that we might exploit,” she quickly added, as her counterpart’s countenance seemed to brighten with possibility. “A blow against one is a blow against both.”

  The thin man paused and absorbed that reasoning for a short while, and she was far from certain he agreed.

  “The ranger is an excitable one,” he said, shifting the subject. “Even after twenty years of hunting the Vaasan wilderness, Mariabronne is easily agitated.”

  “This is a relic of Zhengyi he has discovered. Many would consider that reason to become agitated.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Wingham believes that, so says Mariabronne, and not for the purposes of making a deal, obviously, or the half-orc opportunist would have quietly sold the artifact.”

  That had the thin man leaning back more deeply into the shadows, the darkness swallowing almost all of his fragile form. He brought his hands up before him, slender fingertips tap-tapping together.

  “Wingham is no fool,” the shadowy figure warned.

  “He knows magic, if nothing else,” Ellery replied. “I would trust his judgment on this.”

  “So Zhengyi left a book,” muttered the thin man, “a book of power.”

  “A book of creation, so says Mariabronne.”

  “You will go to Palishchuk?”

  “I will.”

  “With an appointed escort of your choosing?”

  “Of course. Mariabronne will lead a small group in the morning.”

  “You know whom to choose?”

  Ellery didn’t even try to hide her surprise when she said, “You wish a place on the caravan?”

  The thin man tapped his fingers together a few more times, and in the shadows, Ellery could see him nodding.

  “Your exploits have not gone unnoticed,” Ellery said to Jarlaxle that night, back in Muddy Boots and Bloody Blades.

  “If they had, I would be deeply wounded,” the drow replied, tipping his glass and offering a lewd wink.

  Ellery blushed despite herself, and Jarlaxle thought her red hair only accentuated the sudden color in her cheeks.

  “I travel to Palishchuk tomorrow,” she said, composing herself.

  “I have heard of this place, Palishchuk—half-orcs, correct?”

  “Indeed, but quite civilized.”

  “We should celebrate your departure.”

  “Our departure.”

  That caught the drow off his guard, but of course, he didn’t show it.

  “I am assembling a troupe to make the journey,” she explained.

  “Your exploits have not gone unnoticed.”

  “Nor have they been accomplished alone.”

  “Your friend is invited as well.”

  As she spoke of Entreri, the pair of them turned together to regard the man who stood beside the bar, a mug of ale growing warm on the counter before him, and his typical background sneer hidden just behind his distanced expression. He wore his gray cloak back over one shoulder, showing the fine white shirt that Ilnezhara had given him before the journey to the Vaasan Gate and also revealing the jeweled hilt of his fabulous dagger, sheathed on his hip. It did not escape the attention of Jarlaxle and Ellery that those around Entreri were keeping a respectful step back, were affording him more personal space than anyone else in the bar.

  “He has that quality,” Jarlaxle mused aloud.

  He continued to admire Entreri even as Ellery looked at him for an explanation. But the drow didn’t bother to voice his observation. Entreri was far from the largest man in the tavern and had made no aggressive moves toward anyone, yet it was obvious that those around him co
uld sense his strength, his competence. It had to be his eyes, Jarlaxle presumed, for the set of his stare spoke of supreme concentration—perhaps the best attribute of a true warrior.

  “Will he go?” the drow heard Ellery ask, and from her tone, it was apparent to him that it was not the first time she had posed the question.

  “He is my friend,” Jarlaxle replied, as if that description settled everything. “He would not let me walk into danger alone.”

  “Then you agree?”

  Jarlaxle turned to her and grinned wickedly. “Only if you promise me that I will not be cold in the night wind.”

  Ellery returned his smile then placed her drink down on the table beside them.

  “At dawn,” she instructed, and she started away.

  Jarlaxle grabbed her arm and said, “But I am cold.”

  “We are not yet on the road,” she said.

  Ellery danced from his grasp and moved across the floor and out of the tavern.

  Jarlaxle continued to grin as he considered her curves from that most advantageous angle. The moment she was out of sight, he snapped his gaze back at Entreri and sighed, knowing the man would resist his persuasion, as always.

  It was going to be a long night.

  Looking splendid in her shining armor, shield strapped across her back and axe set at her side, Ellery sat upon a large roan mare at the head of the two wagon caravan. Mariabronne rode beside her on a bay. A pair of mounted soldiers complimented them at the back of the line, two large and angry looking men. One of them was the bounty clerk, Davis Eng, the other an older man with gray hair.

  The two women driving the first wagon were not of the Army of Bloodstone, but fellow mercenaries from the local taverns. One Jarlaxle knew as Parissus of Impiltur, large-boned, round-faced, and with her light-colored hair cropped short. Often had he and Entreri heard the woman boasting of her exploits, and she did seem to take great pleasure in herself.