Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  His consciousness flitted away; he felt the rake of claws. He lifted an arm to defend himself and a monstrous maw clamped down upon it.

  Black spots became a general darkness. He felt cold … so cold.

  Mariabronne the Rover summoned all of his strength and went into a sudden and violent frenzy, slashing wildly, punching and kicking.

  Then the ranger’s journey was before him, the only road he ever rightly expected while following his adventurous spirit.

  He was at peace.

  Blackness engulfed Arrayan as the mummy’s strong hands closed around her throat. She couldn’t begin to concentrate enough to throw one of her few remaining spells, and she knew that her magic had not the strength to defeat or even deter the monsters in any case.

  Nor did she have the physical strength to begin to fight back. She grabbed the mummy’s wrists with her hands, but she might as well have been trying to tear an old oak tree out of the ground.

  She managed a glance at Olgerkhan, who was thrashing with another pair of the horrid creatures, and that one glance told the woman that her friend would likely join her in the netherworld.

  The mummy pressed harder, forcing her head back, and somewhere deep inside she hoped that her neck would just snap and be done with it before her lack of breath overcame her.

  Then she staggered backward, and the mummy’s arms went weak in her grasp. Confused, Arrayan opened her eyes then recoiled with horror as she realized that she was holding two severed limbs. She threw them to the ground, gasped a deep and welcomed breath of air, and looked back at the creature only to see the whirlwind that was Artemis Entreri hacking it apart.

  Another mummy grabbed at Arrayan from the side, and she cried out.

  And Entreri was there, rolling his extraordinary sword up and over with a left-to-right backhand that forced the mummy’s arms aside. The assassin turned as he followed through, flipped his dagger into the air and caught it backhand, then drove it right to the hilt into the mummy’s face as he came around. Gray dust flew from the impact.

  Entreri yanked the dagger free, spun around so that he was facing the creature, and bulled ahead, driving it right over the railing.

  Arrayan sobbed with horror and weakness, and the assassin grabbed her by the arm and guided her toward the stair.

  “Get down!” he ordered.

  Arrayan, too battered and overwhelmed, too weak and frightened, hesitated.

  “Go!” Entreri shouted.

  He leaped at her, causing her to cry out again, then he went right by, launching himself with furious abandon into another of the stubborn gnoll mummies.

  “Now, woman!” he shouted as his weapons began their deadly dance once more.

  Arrayan didn’t move.

  Entreri growled in frustration. It was going to be hard enough keeping himself alive up there as more creatures poured in, without having to protect Arrayan. A glance toward the door inspired him.

  “Arrayan,” he cried, “I must get to Olgerkhan. To the stair with you, I beg.”

  Perhaps it was the mention of her half-orc friend, or perhaps the calming change in his voice, but Entreri was glad indeed to see the woman sprint off for the stairs.

  The mummy before him crumbled, and the assassin leaped ahead.

  Olgerkhan was losing badly. Bruises and cuts covered him by then, and he staggered with every lumbering swing of his heavy war club.

  Entreri hit him full force from behind, driving him right past the pair of battling mummies, and the assassin kept pushing, throwing Olgerkhan hard against the back of the opened door. The door slammed, or tried to, for a gargoyle was wedged between it and the jamb.

  But Entreri kept moving, right into the incoming creature. He ignored the mummies he knew were fast closing on him and focused all of his fury instead on that trapped gargoyle. He slashed and stabbed and drove it back.

  Olgerkhan’s weight finally closed the door.

  “Just hold it shut!” Entreri yelled at him. “For all our sakes.”

  The assassin charged away at the remaining two mummies.

  Ellery instinctively knew that she was in grave danger. Perhaps it had been the tone of Mariabronne’s plea for help or even that the legendary Rover had called out at all. Perhaps it was the closed door at the bottom of the staircase before her, or maybe it was the sound.

  For other than her footsteps, and those of the duo behind her, all was silent.

  She lowered her shoulder and barreled through the door, stumbling into the room, shield and sword presented. There she froze, then slumped in horror and despair, her fears confirmed. For there lay Mariabronne, on his back, unmoving and with his neck and chest covered in his own blood. Blood continued to roll from the neck wound, but it was not gushing forth as it had been, for the ranger’s heart no longer beat.

  “Too many,” Athrogate said, rambling in behind her.

  “Guardian daemons,” Jarlaxle remarked, noting the demonic heads, all that remained of the creatures, lying about the room. “A valiant battle.”

  Ellery continued to simply stand there, staring at Mariabronne, staring at the dead hero of Damara. From her earliest days, Ellery had heard stories of that great man, of his work with her uncle the king and his particular relationship with the line of Tranth, the Barons of Bloodstone and Ellery’s immediate family members. Like so many warriors of her generation, Ellery had held up the legend of Mariabronne as the epitome of a hero, the idol and the goal. As Gareth Dragonsbane and his friends had inspired the young warriors of Mariabronne’s generation, so had he passed along that inspiration to hers.

  And he lay dead at Ellery’s feet. Dead on a mission she was leading. Dead because of her decision to split the party to explore the tunnels.

  Almost unaware of her surroundings, Ellery was shaken from her turmoil by the shout of Athrogate.

  “That’s the priest!” the dwarf yelled, and he charged back out of the room.

  Jarlaxle moved near to Ellery and put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

  “You are needed elsewhere,” the dark elf bade her. “There is nothing more you can do here.”

  She offered the drow a blank look.

  “Go with Athrogate,” said Jarlaxle. “There is work to be done and quickly.”

  Hardly thinking, Ellery staggered out of the room.

  “I will see to Mariabronne,” Jarlaxle assured her as she stumbled back up the corridor.

  True to his word, the drow was with the ranger as soon as Ellery was out of sight. He pulled out a wand and cast a quick divination spell.

  He was surprised and disappointed at how little magic registered on a man of Mariabronne’s reputation. The man’s sword, Bayurel, was of course enchanted, as was his armor, but none of it strongly. He wore a single magical ring, but a cursory glance told Jarlaxle that he possessed at least a dozen rings of greater enchantment—and so he shook his head and decided that pilfering the obvious ring wasn’t worth the risk.

  One thing did catch his attention, however, and as soon as he opened Mariabronne’s small belt pouch, a smile widened on Jarlaxle’s face.

  “Obsidian steed,” he remarked, pulling forth the small black equine figurine. A quick inspection revealed its command words.

  Jarlaxle crossed the ranger’s arms over his chest and placed Bayurel in the appropriate position atop him. He felt a moment of regret. He had heard much of Mariabronne the Rover during his short time in the Bloodstone Lands, and he knew that he had become party to a momentous event. The shock of the man’s death would resonate in Vaasa and Damara for a long time to come, and it occurred to Jarlaxle that it truly was an important loss.

  He gave a quick salute to the dead hero and acknowledged the sadness of his passing.

  Of course, it wasn’t enough of a regret for Jarlaxle to put back the obsidian steed.

  “Aw, what’d ye do?” Athrogate asked Pratcus as soon as he came upon the dying priest.

  Pinned to the corridor wall, his chest shattered and torn, Pratcus cou
ld only stare numbly at his counterpart.

  Athrogate grabbed the spike and tried to pull it back, but he couldn’t get a handhold. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, both of them knew, as did Ellery when she moved in behind the black-bearded dwarf.

  “Bah, ye go to Moradin’s Halls, then,” Athrogate said. He pulled a skin from around his neck and held it up to the priest. “A bit o’ the gutbuster,” he explained, referring to that most potent of dwarven liquid spirits. “It’ll help ye get there and put ye in a good mood for talking with the boss.”

  “Hurts,” Pratcus gasped. He sipped at the skin, and even managed a thankful nod as the fiery liquid burned down his throat.

  Then he was dead.

  CHAPTER 19

  CLEARING THE PATH

  Leaning on each other for much-needed support, Arrayan and Olgerkhan inched down the staircase. Entreri came up and moved between them, pushing Olgerkhan more tightly against the railing and forcing the half-orc to grab on with both his hands.

  Entreri turned to Arrayan, who was holding on to him and swaying unsteadily. He shifted to put his shoulder back behind her, then in a single move swept her up into his arms. With a glance at Olgerkhan to make sure that the buffoon wouldn’t come tumbling behind him, the assassin started away.

  Arrayan brought a hand up against his face and he looked down at her, into her eyes.

  “You saved me,” she said, her voice barely audible. “All of us.”

  Entreri felt a rush of warm blood in his face. For just a brief moment, he saw the image of Dwahvel’s face superimposed over the similar features of Arrayan. He felt warm indeed, and it occurred to him that he should just keep walking, away from the group, taking Arrayan far away from all of it.

  His sensibilities, so entrenched and pragmatic after spending almost the entirety of his life in a desperate attempt at survival, tried to question, tried to illustrate the illogic of it all. But for the first time in three decades, those practical sensibilities had no voice in the thoughts of Artemis Entreri.

  “Thank you,” Arrayan whispered, and her hand traced the outline of his cheek and lips.

  The lump in his throat was too large for Entreri to respond, other than with a quick nod.

  “That’ll hold, but not for long,” Athrogate announced, coming to the railing of the balcony overlooking the keep’s main floor. From below, the dwarf’s six remaining companions glanced up at him and at the continuing pounding and scratching on the door behind him. “More gargoyles than mummies,” Athrogate explained. “Gargoyles don’t hit as hard.”

  “The room is far from secure,” put in Canthan, who still stood by the open book. “They will find a way in. Let us be on our way.”

  “Destroy the book?” Olgerkhan asked.

  “Would that I could.”

  “Take it with us, then?” Arrayan asked, and the horror in her voice revealed much.

  Canthan snickered at her.

  “Then what?” Ellery chimed in, the first words she had spoken in some time, and with a shaky voice. “We came here for a purpose, and that seems clear before us. Are we to run away without completing—”

  “I said nothing about running away, my dear Commander Ellery,” Canthan interrupted. “But we should be gone from this particular room.”

  “With the book,” Ellery reasoned.

  “Not possible,” Canthan informed her.

  “Bah! I’ll tear it out o’ the ground!” said Athrogate, and he scrambled up on the railing and hopped down to the stairs.

  “The book is protected,” said Canthan. “It is but a conduit in any case. We’ll not destroy it, or claim it, until the source of its power is no more.”

  “And that source is?” Olgerkhan asked, and neither Canthan nor Jarlaxle missed the way the half-orc stiffened with the question.

  “That is what we must discern,” the wizard replied.

  Jarlaxle was unconvinced, for Canthan’s gaze drifted over Arrayan as he spoke. The drow knew the wizard had long ago “discerned” the source, as had Jarlaxle and Entreri. A glance at his assassin friend, the man’s face rigid and cold and glaring hard Canthan’s way told Jarlaxle that Entreri was catching on as well and that he wasn’t very happy about the conclusions Canthan had obviously drawn.

  “Then where do we start?” Ellery asked.

  “Down, I sense,” said Canthan.

  Jarlaxle recognized that the man was bluffing, partially at least, though the drow wasn’t quite certain of why. In truth, Jarlaxle wasn’t so sure that Canthan’s guess was off the mark. Certainly part of the source for the construction was standing right beside him in the form of a half-orc woman. But that was a small part, Jarlaxle knew, as if Arrayan had been the initial flare to send a gnomish fire-rocket skyward before the main explosion filled the night sky with its bright-burning embers.

  “The castle must have a king,” the drow remarked, and he believed that, though he sensed clearly that Canthan believed it to be a queen instead—and one standing not so far away.

  It wasn’t the time and place to confront the wizard openly, Jarlaxle realized. The pounding on the door continued from above, and the volume of the scratching on the keep’s main doors, just past Canthan and the book, led Jarlaxle to believe that scores of undead monstrosities had risen against them.

  The room was no sanctuary and would soon enough become a crypt.

  Jarlaxle will peruse the book and you will guard him, Canthan’s magical sending echoed in Ellery’s head. When we are long gone, you will do as you were trained to do. As you promised you could do.

  Ellery’s eyes widened, but she did well to hide her surprise.

  Another magical sending came to her: Our victory is easily achieved, and I know how to do it. But Jarlaxle will stand against my course. He sees personal gain here, whatever the cost to Damara. For our sake, and the sake of the land, the drow must be killed.

  Ellery took the continuing words in stride, not surprised. She didn’t quite understand what Canthan was talking about, of course. Easily achieved? Why would Jarlaxle not agree to something like that? It made no sense, but Ellery could not easily dismiss the source of the information and of her orders. Canthan had found her many years ago, and through his work, she had gained greatly in rank and reputation. Her skill as a warrior had been honed through many years of training, but that added icing, the edge that allowed her to win when others could not, had been possible only through the work of Canthan and his associates.

  Though they were the enemies of the throne and her own relatives, Ellery knew that the relationship between the crown of Damara and the Citadel of Assassins was complicated and not quite as openly hostile and adversarial as onlookers might believe. Certainly Ellery had quietly profited from her relationship with Canthan—and never had the wizard asked her to do anything that went against the crown.

  In her gut, however, she knew that there was something more going on than the wizard was telling her. Was Canthan seeking some personal gain himself? Was he using Ellery to settle a personal grudge he held with the dark elf?

  Now!

  Ellery jolted at the sharp intrusion, her gaze going to Canthan. He stood resolute, eyes narrow, lips thin.

  A hundred questions popped into Ellery’s head, a hundred demands she wanted to make of the wizard. How could she follow such an order against someone who had done nothing out of line along the expedition, someone she had asked along and who had performed, to that point, so admirably? How could she do this to someone she had known as a lover, though that had meant little to her?

  Looking at Canthan, Ellery realized how she could and why she would.

  The wizard terrified her, as did the band of cutthroats he represented.

  It all came clear to Commander Ellery at that moment, as she admitted to herself, for the first time, the truth of her involvement with the Citadel of Assassins and its wizard representative. She had spent years justifying her secret relationship with Canthan, telling herself that her personal gains and the way s
he could use them would benefit the kingdom. In Ellery’s mind, for all that time, she thought herself in control of the relationship. She, the relative of Tranth and of both King Gareth and Lady Christine, would always do what was best for Damara and greater Bloodstone.

  What did it matter if the dark tendrils of her choices delayed her from that “moment of miracle” her relatives all enviously awaited, that release of holy power that would show the world that she was beyond an ordinary warrior, that she was a paladin in the line of Gareth Dragonsbane?

  At that moment, though, the nakedness of her self-delusion and justification hit her hard. Perhaps Canthan was imparting truthful thoughts to her to justify her killing of the drow. Perhaps, she tried to tell herself, the dark elf Jarlaxle truly was an impediment to their necessary victory.

  Yes, that was it, the woman told herself. They all wanted to win, all wanted to survive. The death of Mariabronne had to mean something. The Zhengyian castle had to be defeated. Canthan knew that, and he apparently knew something about Jarlaxle that Ellery did not.

  Despite her newest rationalization, deep in her heart Ellery suspected something else. Deep in her heart, Ellery understood the truth of her relationship with Canthan and the Citadel of Assassins.

  But some things were better left buried deep.

  She had to trust him, not for his sake, but for hers.

  His eye patch tingled. Nothing specific came to him, but Jarlaxle understood that a magical intrusion—a sending or scrying, some unseen wave of magical energy—had just flitted by him.

  At first the drow feared that the castle’s king to whom he had referred might be looking in on them, but then, as Ellery remarked to him, “Do you believe you might be able to find some deeper insight into the magical tome? Something that Canthan has overlooked?” Jarlaxle came to understand that the source of the magic had been none other than his wizardly companion.