Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  A glance back made Canthan wince for his gruff ally, but it was one of instinct and reaction, certainly not of sympathy for the dwarf.

  Athrogate came through the fireball, of course, smoking and cursing.

  Canthan hardly paid him any heed, for his gaze went back to Jarlaxle. Who was this drow elf? And who was that deadly sidekick of his, standing amidst the inedible carrion of dead gargoyles? The wizard didn’t lie to himself and insist that he wasn’t impressed. Canthan had served Knellict for many years, and in the hierarchy of the Citadel of Assassins, survival meant never underestimating either your friends or your foes.

  “Why are you here, drow?” Canthan whispered into the night air.

  At that moment, Jarlaxle happened to turn his way and obviously spotted him, for the drow gave a tip of his great plumed hat.

  Canthan chewed his lip and silently cursed himself for the error. He should have cast an enchantment of invisibility before poking his head out.

  But the drow would have seen him anyway, he suspected.

  He gave a helpless sigh and grabbed the rope, rolling out so that he landed on his feet. A glance around told him that the fight was over, the gargoyles destroyed, and so with a snap of his fingers, he dismissed his extra-dimensional pocket.

  “The castle is alive,” Olgerkhan said.

  He was bent over at the waist, huffing and puffing, and it seemed to the others that it was all he could do to hold his footing and not sink down to his knees. At his side, Arrayan put a hand on his shoulder, though she seemed equally drained.

  “And already more gargoyles are … growing,” said old Wingham, coming up the northern side of the hill. “On the battlements, I mean. Even as that force flew off into the night, more began to take shape in their vacated places.”

  “Well now, there is a lovely twist,” Canthan remarked.

  “We must tear down the castle,” declared Pratcus. “By the will o’ Moradin, no such an abomination as that will stand! Though I’m guessing that Dumathoin’d be wanting to find out how the magic o’ the place is doing such a thing.”

  “A high wall of iron and stone,” Mariabronne said. “Tear it down? Has Palishchuk the capability to begin such a venture as that?” From his tone, it was clear that the ranger’s question was a rhetorical one.

  “We are fortunate that this group flew our way,” said Wingham. “What havoc might they have wrought upon the unsuspecting folk of Palishchuk?”

  “Unsuspecting no more, then,” the ranger agreed. “We will set the defenses.”

  “Or prepare the runnin’,” put in a snickering Athrogate.

  “King Gareth will send an army if need be,” said Ellery. “Pratcus is correct. This abomination will not stand.”

  “Ah, but would we not all be the fools to attack an armored turtle through its shell?” said Jarlaxle, turning all eyes, particularly those of Entreri, his way.

  “Ye got a better idea?” Athrogate asked.

  “I have some experience with these Zhengyian constructs,” the drow admitted. “My friend and I defeated a tower not unlike this one, though much smaller of course, back on the outskirts of Heliogabalus.”

  Athrogate raised an eyebrow at that. “Ye were part o’ that? A few days afore ye—we left on the caravan to Bloodstone Pass? That big rumble in the east?”

  “Aye, good dwarf,” Jarlaxle replied. “ ’Twas myself and good Entreri here who laid low the tower and its evil minions.”

  “Bwahaha!”

  Entreri just shook his head as Jarlaxle dipped a low bow.

  “The way to win,” the drow said as he straightened, “is from the inside. Crawl in through the hard shell to the soft underbelly.”

  “Soft? Now there’s a word,” remarked an obviously flustered and suspicious Entreri, and when Jarlaxle glanced his way, he saw that his friend was none too happy. And none too trusting, his dark eyes throwing darts at the drow.

  “We’re listening, good drow,” Mariabronne prompted.

  “The castle has a king—a life-force holding it together,” Jarlaxle explained, though of course he had no idea if he was on target or not.

  Certainly the tower back in Heliogabalus had crumbled when the gem had been plucked from the book, and the sisters told him that killing the lich would have served the same purpose, but in truth, he had no more than a guess concerning the much grander structure—and if the structure was so much bigger, then what of its “king”?

  “If we destroy this life-force, the tower—the castle—will unbind,” the drow went on. “All that will be left will be a pile of stone and metal for the blacksmiths and stonemasons to forage through.” He noted as he finished that both Arrayan and Olgerkhan shifted uneasily.

  That told him a lot.

  “Perhaps it would be better to alert King Gareth,” a doubting Mariabronne replied.

  “Master Wingham can send runners from Palishchuk to that end,” Commander Ellery declared. “For now, our course is clear—through the shell then and to the soft insides.”

  “So says yerself,” blustered Athrogate.

  “So I do, good dwarf,” said Ellery. “I will enter the castle at dawn.” She paused and glanced at each of them in turn. “I brought you out here for just an eventuality such as this. Now the enemy is clear before us. Palishchuk cannot wait for word to get to Bloodstone Village and for an army to be assembled. And so I go in. I will not command any of you to follow, but—”

  “Of course you will not have to,” Jarlaxle interrupted, and when all eyes turned his way again, he dipped another bow. “We ventured forth for just an eventuality such as this, and so by your side, we stand.” By his side, Jarlaxle could feel Entreri’s gaze boring into him.

  “Bwahaha!” Athrogate bellowed again.

  “Yes, of course we must investigate this further,” said Canthan. “By Dumathoin!” said Pratcus.

  “All of you, then,” Wingham remarked, “with Arrayan and Olgerkhan, you will vanquish this menace. Of that I am sure.”

  “Them two?” Athrogate asked with a great “Harrumph.”

  “They represent the finest of Palishchuk,” Wingham replied.

  “Then get the whole damn town running now, and save yerself the trouble!”

  “Easy, good dwarf,” said Canthan.

  “We’ll be spending more time dragging them two about than hunting the enemy,” Athrogate grumbled. “I ain’t for—”

  “Enough, good dwarf,” said Canthan.

  Arrayan moved from Olgerkhan’s side to face the furious dwarf.

  “We will not fail in this,” she said.

  “Bah!” Athrogate snorted, and he turned away.

  “Two replacements for us,” Entreri whispered to Jarlaxle as they moved back across the hilltop to their respective bedrolls.

  “You would not wish to miss this grand adventure, of course.”

  “You knew about it all along,” the assassin accused. “The sisters sent us up here for precisely this.”

  “We have already been through this,” replied the drow. “A library has been opened, obviously, and so the adventure unwinds.”

  “The tower we defeated wouldn’t serve as a guardhouse for this structure,” Entreri warned. “And that lich was beyond us.”

  “The lich is destroyed.”

  “So is my glove.”

  Jarlaxle stopped walking and stared at his friend for a few moments.

  “A fine point,” he conceded finally, “but worry not, for we’ll find a way.”

  “That is the best answer you can find?”

  “We always do find a way.”

  “And we always shall, I suppose?”

  “Of course.”

  “Until the last time. There will be only one last time.”

  Jarlaxle considered that for a few moments.

  Then he shrugged.

  “First time them two fall down will only be giving me a softer place to put me boot,” Athrogate grumbled, sitting on the torn fabric that used to be Canthan’s tent. />
  He rambled on with his unceasing complaints, but the wizard wasn’t listening. Canthan’s eyes were focused across the way, where Wingham was sitting with Arrayan and Olgerkhan.

  Something wasn’t right with those two.

  “What? What?” the dwarf asked him, apparently taking heed of the fact that he wasn’t being listened to and not much enjoying it. Canthan began to cast a quick spell, and a translucent shape, somewhat like an ear, appeared floating in mid-air before him. He puffed on it and it drifted away, gliding toward the conversation on the northern side of the encampment. The female, Arrayan, moved off, leaving Wingham alone with the brutish Olgerkhan.

  And with Canthan, though of course Wingham didn’t know that.

  “You know our deal,” the old half-orc said, his tone grave.

  “I know.”

  “It must not get too far gone,” Wingham said. “There can be no delay, no staying of your hand if the killing blow is needed.”

  “I know!” the larger half-orc growled.

  “Olgerkhan, I am as wounded by this possibility as are you,” Wingham said. “This is neither my choice nor my desire. We follow the only road possible, or all is already lost.”

  His voice trailed off and Olgerkhan held his response as Arrayan moved back to them.

  “Interesting,” mumbled Canthan.

  “What? What?” bellowed Athrogate.

  “Nothing, perhaps,” said the wizard, turning to face his friend. He glanced back across the way as he added, “Or perhaps everything.”

  Face down, his arms bound behind him, his head hooded, Nyungy had all but given up hope. Resigned to his doom, he wasn’t even crying out anymore.

  But then a hand grabbed his hood and gently pulled it back, and the old sage found himself staring into the face of his friend.

  “How many days?” he gasped through his dry, cracked lips.

  “Only two,” Wingham replied. “I tried to get to you earlier, but Olgerkhan …” He finished with a sigh and held up his wrists, cut cord still hanging from them.

  “Your young friend has gone mad!”

  “He protects the girl.”

  “Your niece.” There was no missing the accusation in that tone. Wingham looked at Nyungy hard, but only for a moment, then moved around and began to untie him. “To simply murder—”

  “It is not murder, as she brought it on herself.”

  “Unwittingly.”

  “Irrelevant. You would see the city endangered for the sake of one girl?” asked the sage. Again Wingham held up his wrists, but Nyungy was too sly to fall for that ruse. “You play a dangerous game here, Wingham.”

  Wingham offered a sigh and said, “The game was begun before ever I knew the dangers, and once set in motion, there was no other course before us.”

  “You could have killed the girl and been done with it.”

  Wingham paused for just a moment. “Come,” he bade his old friend. “We must prepare the city.”

  “Where is the girl?”

  “Heroes have come from the Vaasan Gate.”

  “Where is the girl?”

  “She went into the castle.”

  Nyungy’s eyes widened and he seemed as if he might simply fall over.

  “With Commander Ellery, niece of Gareth Dragonsbane,” Wingham explained, “and with Mariabronne the Rover.”

  Nyungy continued to stare, then nodded and asked, “Olgerkhan is with her?”

  “With instructions to not allow the structure to take her. At all costs.”

  The old sage considered it all for some time. “Too dangerous,” he decided with a shake of his head, and he started walking past Wingham.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Didn’t you just say that we had to go and prepare the city? But prepare it for what? To defend, or to run?”

  “A little of both, I fear,” Wingham conceded.

  Many times during his journey back to the apartment he shared with Entreri, Jarlaxle fished the violet-glowing gem out of his pocket. Many times he held it up before his eyes, pondering the possibilities hidden inside its skull-like facets as he vividly recalled the sensations at the graveyard. It was a power, necromancy, of which Jarlaxle knew little, and one that piqued his curiosity. What gains might he realize from that purple gem?

  The book that had hidden it had been destroyed. Gone too was the tower it had created from feeding on the life-force of Herminicle. All that remained was rubble and scraps. But the gem survived, and it thrummed with power. It was the real prize. The book had been the icing, as sweet as anything Piter spread on his creations, but the gem, that violet skull, was the cake itself. If its powers could be harnessed and utilized.…

  To build another tower, perhaps?

  To find a better connection to the dead? For information?

  To find allies among the dead?

  The dark elf could hardly contain his grin. He so loved new magical toys to examine, and his near-disastrous companionship with the infamous artifact Crenshinibon, the Crystal Shard, had done little to dampen his insatiable curiosity. He wished that Kimmuriel was available to him, for the drow psionicist could unravel the deepest of magical mysteries with ease. If only Jarlaxle had found the skull gem before his last meeting with his lieutenant.

  But he would have to wait tendays for their next appointed rendezvous.

  “What can you do for me?” he whispered to the skull gem, and perhaps it was his imagination, but the item seem to flare with eagerness.

  And that Zhengyian artifact was of little consequence, comparatively speaking, if the fear in Ilnezhara’s eyes was any indication. What other treasures lay up there in wait for him and Entreri? What other toys had Zhengyi left scattered about to bring mischief to his vanquishers?

  Power to topple a king, perhaps?

  Or power to create a king?

  That last thought hung in the air, waiting for the drow to grab it and examine it.

  He considered the road he and Entreri had traveled to get to Heliogabalus in the still untamed Bloodstone Lands. Wandering adventurers they were, profiteers in heroes’ clothing. Living free and running free, turning their backs to the wind, whichever way that wind was blowing. No purpose led them, save the drow’s desire for a new experience, some excitement different from that which had surrounded him for so many centuries. For Entreri, the same?

  No, Jarlaxle thought. It wasn’t the lure of new experiences that guided Entreri, but some other need that the assassin likely didn’t even understand himself. Entreri didn’t know why he stayed by Jarlaxle’s side along their meandering road.

  But Jarlaxle knew, and he knew, too, that Entreri would stay with him as that road led them farther to the north to the wilds of Vaasa and the promise of greater treasure than even the skull gem.

  How might Entreri react if Jarlaxle decided they should stay for some time—forever, perhaps, as measured in the life of a human? If Zhengyian artifacts fell into their hands, the power to tear down a kingdom or to build one, would Entreri willingly participate?

  “One journey at a time,” Jarlaxle decided, even as he came upon the wooden staircase that led to the balcony of their second story apartment. The sun was up by then, burning through the heavy mist of the eastern sky.

  Jarlaxle paused there to consider the parting words of the two dragon sisters:

  “The secrets of Zhengyi were greater than Zhengyi. The folk of Damara, King Gareth most of all, pray that those secrets died with the Witch-King,” Ilnezhara had said with certainty.

  “But now we know that they did not,” Tazmikella had added. “Some of them, at least, have survived.”

  Jarlaxle remembered the words and recalled even more vividly the timbre with which they were spoken, the reverence and even fear. He recalled the look in their respective eyes, sparkling with eagerness, intrigue, and terror.

  “With all due respect, King Gareth,” Jarlaxle said to the misty morning air, “let us hope that little was destroyed.”

  He glan
ced down the street to the little shop where he had set up Piter the baker. Its doors weren’t open yet, but Jarlaxle knew that his portly friend would not refuse him admittance.

  A short while later, he started up the staircase, knowing that the first battle along his new road, that of convincing the sour, still-hurting Entreri, lay behind his multi-trapped door.

  CHAPTER 14

  ZHENGYI’S ALTERNATE WORLD

  So complete was the castle construction that by the time the nine companions approached the front gates the next morning, they found a fanciful and well-designed flagstone walkway leading to them. On the walls to either side of the closed portcullis, half-formed gargoyles leered at the approaching troupe, and in the few moments it took them to reach the portcullis, those statues grew into an even more defined form.

  “They will be ready to launch into the sky again this night,” Mariabronne noted. “Wingham would do well to force Palishchuk into a strong defensive posture.”

  “For all the good that’ll do ’em,” Athrogate grumbled.

  “Then let us be quick about our task,” Ellery replied.

  “We heroes,” Entreri muttered under his breath, so that only Jarlaxle, standing right beside him at the back of the line, could hear.

  The drow was about to respond, but he felt a sudden tug at his sensibilities. Not sure what that might mean, Jarlaxle put a hand over the magical button on his waistcoat, wherein he had stored the skull gem. A look of concern flashed over his angular face. Could it be that the magical gems could call to each other? Had he erred in bringing his skull gem near to the new construct?

  Mariabronne was first to the portcullis, its iron spikes as thick as his arms. He peered through the bars at the castle’s lower bailey.

  “It appears empty,” he reported as the others came up beside him. “I can get a grapnel over the wall, perhaps, and locate the hoist.”

  “No need,” Canthan said, and the thin wizard nodded at Athrogate.

  “Bah!” the dwarf snorted and he moved up and gently nudged Mariabronne aside. “Gonna pop out me guts, ye stupid mage.”

  “We all have our uses,” Canthan replied to him. “Some of us attend to them without so much blather, however.”