Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “I need not explain the details to you, of course,” Knellict said. “You are both well aware of the rules. We understand each other?”

  “I have created such organizations,” Jarlaxle assured him.

  Knellict burst into movement. Entreri went for his weapons, but Jarlaxle, recognizing the gesture, grabbed his friend’s arm.

  A great wind came up and dust swirled around them, blinding them momentarily. And when it was gone, the two stood alone.

  “They were never really here,” Jarlaxle said. “Knellict projected the image and sounds of the entire group to us. He is a powerful one.”

  “But we really had that conversation?”

  “We heard them and they heard us,” Jarlaxle assured him. The drow cast a few quick spells and tapped his eye patch more than once.

  “And now we work for the Citadel of Assassins?” Entreri asked.

  “And the dragon sisters. We would not be wise to forget that pair.”

  “You seem pleased by it all.”

  “The easiest road to gaining control is one walked beside those who currently rule.”

  “I thought it was Jarlaxle who was always in control,” Entreri remarked, and his voice took a sudden sharp edge to it.

  The drow looked at him curiously, catching that razor line.

  “Even when he should not be in control,” the assassin went on. “Even in those instances when he is taking control of something that does not concern him.”

  “When did you take to speaking in riddles?”

  “When did you presume to so manipulate me?”

  “Manipulate?” Jarlaxle gave a little laugh. “Why, my friend, is that not the nature of our relationship? Mutual manipulation for personal gain?”

  “Is it?”

  “Are we to spend this entire conversation asking questions without answers?”

  In reply, Entreri pulled forth Idalia’s flute and tossed it at Jarlaxle’s feet.

  “I did not give you that,” the drow stated.

  “Truly?” asked Entreri. “Was it not a gift from the sisters, with Jarlaxle’s understanding and agreement?”

  “It is a precious instrument, a gift that most would appreciate.”

  “It is a manipulation of the heart, and you knew it.”

  The drow put on an innocent look but couldn’t hold it and just gave a little laugh instead.

  “Did you fear that I would not go into the castle unless I felt something for Arrayan?”

  “I had no idea that there was an Arrayan,” Jarlaxle pointed out.

  “But you enjoyed the manipulation.”

  “My friend …” Jarlaxle began, but Entreri cut him short.

  “Don’t call me that.”

  Again Entreri’s tone caught the drow by surprise, as if that knife’s edge in his voice had developed a wicked, serrated blade.

  “You still cannot admit the obvious, I see,” Jarlaxle said. He took a step back, almost expecting Entreri to draw his sword on him.

  The assassin looked around.

  “Knellict and his minions are long gone,” Jarlaxle assured him, and he tapped his enchanted eye patch to accentuate his certainty.

  “Jarlaxle knows,” Entreri remarked. “Jarlaxle knows everything.”

  “It keeps us both alive.”

  “And again, that is by the choice of Jarlaxle.”

  “You are beginning to bore me.”

  Entreri rushed up to him and grabbed him by the throat.

  Jarlaxle dropped a knife from his enchanted bracer into one hand, ready to plunge it home. But Entreri wasn’t pressing the case, other than to shout in Jarlaxle’s face, “Are you my father, then?”

  “Hardly that.”

  “Then what?” Entreri asked, and he let go, sending Jarlaxle stumbling back a step. “You manipulate and carry me along, and for what? For glory? To give a dark elf credibility among the humans? For treasures that you cannot carry alone?”

  “No such treasures exist,” came the dry reply.

  “Then for what?” Entreri yelled at him.

  “For what,” Jarlaxle echoed, with another of his little laughs and a shake of his head. “Why, for anything and for nothing at all.”

  Entreri stared at him with a puzzled expression.

  “You have no purpose, no direction,” Jarlaxle explained. “You wander about muttering to yourself. You walk no road, because you see no road before you. I would be doing you a favor if I killed you.”

  That brought a look showing a complete acceptance, even an eagerness, for the challenge.

  “Is it not the truth?” Jarlaxle asked. “What is the point of your life, Artemis Entreri? Is it not your own emptiness that led you all those years into desiring a battle with Drizzt Do’Urden?”

  “Every time you mention that name, you remind me how much I hate you.”

  “For giving you that which you desired? For facilitating your fight with the rogue drow? Ah, but did I steal the only thing in your life giving you meaning, by giving you that which you said you desired? A pitiful state of the heart, would you not agree?”

  “What would you have me say? I only know that which I feel.”

  “And you feel like killing me.”

  “More than you would understand.”

  “Because I force you to look at yourself and you do not like what you see. Is that a reason to kill me, because I am offering to you a chance to sort through your own emotions? That is all the magic of the flute did to you, I suspect. It offered you the opportunity to look past your own emotional barriers.”

  “Did I ask for your help?”

  “Friends help when they are not asked.”

  Entreri sighed and shook his head, but he could not deny any of what the drow had said. His shoulders slumped a bit, and Jarlaxle let the dagger fall to the ground behind him, certain then that he would need no weapons.

  A few moments passed between them until finally Entreri looked up at the drow, his face calm, and asked, “Who are you?”

  Jarlaxle laughed again, and it was a sincere expression of joy, for that was where he had hoped it would all lead.

  “Why, Artemis Entreri, do you not yet know? Have you not come to understand any of it?”

  “I understand less each day.”

  “I am your muse,” Jarlaxle announced.

  “What?”

  “I am he who will give meaning to your life, Artemis, my friend. You do not even begin to understand the breadth of your powers. You know how well you might skulk through the shadows, you know all too well your prowess with the blade, but you have never understood what those well-deserved, well-earned powers can bring you.”

  “You assume that I want anything.”

  “Oh, you do. If you can only dare to wish for it.”

  “What? Athrogate’s Citadel of Assassins? Shall we move to dominate them?”

  “Of course, to begin.”

  “Begin?”

  “Think large, my friend. Make your goal expansive. Athrogate will give us the insight and bona fides we need to find a strong place within the Citadel’s organization—we will quickly learn whether it is worth our time to overtly dominate the place or merely to covertly exert enough control to render them harmless to us.”

  “Couldn’t we just kill the annoying little dwarf instead?”

  Jarlaxle laughed. “There has been a void of power up here for many years.”

  “Since the fall of Zhengyi.”

  “Vaasa is ours for the taking.”

  “Vaasa?” Entreri could hardly repeat the word, and for one of the few times in all his life, he actually stuttered. “Y-you would go against King Gareth?”

  Jarlaxle shrugged. “Perhaps. But there are other ways.” He ended by holding up the dragon skull gemstone. “The sisters will learn of a new balance of power between us, to begin with. And within this stone lies control of the castle and a new ally.”

  “An ally that will bite us in half.”

  Jarlaxle shook his head. “Not w
hile I am in possession of his phylactery. He and I are already in communication, I assure you. If I choose to let him out again, he will only do so with great trust in me, for if I destroy the phylactery, I destroy the dracolich’s spirit. Utterly.”

  “Gareth will send soldiers to the castle.”

  “And I will let them stay for a while.”

  “Vaasa?”

  “At least.”

  “You will go against a legendary paladin king?”

  “Come now, can you not admit that it might be fun?”

  Entreri started to speak several times, but nothing decipherable came forth. Finally he just shook his head, sighed, and turned away, moving back down toward the flat ground.

  “Trust me,” said Jarlaxle.

  “My muse?”

  “Your friend.”

  EPILOGUE

  Did the fool human pass your silly little test?” Kimmuriel Oblodra asked Jarlaxle a few days later, off in the shadows beneath the Vaasan Gate.

  “Do not underestimate Artemis Entreri,” Jarlaxle replied, “or the value he brings to me—to us.”

  “And you should not overestimate the power of the skull gems you have found,” Kimmuriel warned, for he had just finished inspecting the pair at Jarlaxle’s request. He had spoken with the dracolich, Urshula by name, and had confirmed Jarlaxle’s suspicions that the beast would not dare to go against the possessor of the phylactery.

  “They are but the beginning,” Jarlaxle said with a grin. “Artemis Entreri and I have an audience with the paladin king in two days, just south of here in Bloodstone Village. We will be received as heroes for our efforts in Vaasa and as solemn witnesses to the end of Gareth’s heroic niece.”

  He couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony of that last statement. If King Gareth only knew!

  Kimmuriel looked at Jarlaxle, wary, recognizing that look of confidence and grandiose schemes in his eyes, for he had seen that look from his former master dozens of times over the centuries. But they were not in the Underdark, in Menzoberranzan where Bregan D’aerthe and Jarlaxle had held many secret trumps.

  “Have you found another Crenshinibon?” the psionicist asked with obvious disgust and concern.

  “I have found opportunity,” Jarlaxle corrected.

  “Bregan D’aerthe will not come forward in force against the likes of King Gareth Dragonsbane.”

  Jarlaxle stared at him with appreciation and said, “Glad I am that I had the wisdom to put Kimmuriel in control of my band,” he said. “Of course you are correct in resisting this bold move. You are a fine leader, and I urge you to continue with all caution, but too with an open mind. There are many events yet to play out up here in this untamed land, and I am in control of most of them.” He brought forth the dragon statuette. “My relationship with a pair of living dragons just changed in ways they cannot understand.”

  “More allies for your battle?”

  “Allies? We shall see.”

  Despite himself, Kimmuriel could not help but offer a wry grin.

  “You might find a way to fit in as events play out,” Jarlaxle said to him. “I pray that Kimmuriel remains an opportunistic leader. The point of Bregan D’aerthe is more than survival, is it not? It is to grow in power.”

  “You nearly destroyed us in Calimport.”

  “Nay,” Jarlaxle corrected. “It was an inconvenience to you. It was myself that I nearly destroyed.”

  “You and Entreri will take down a paladin king?”

  “If it comes to that.”

  Kimmuriel didn’t reply, other than to dip a respectful bow.

  Muddy Boots and Bloody Blades had long since emptied out for the night, but Entreri had tossed the innkeeper enough gold to get the key for the door. He sat alone with his thoughts and a beer, considering the emotions that had accompanied him all the way to Palishchuk and back. On the table beside his flagon lay Idalia’s flute, and Entreri wasn’t yet certain if he hated the item or prized it.

  It was all so very new to him.

  He was to leave in the morning with Jarlaxle for a meeting with the king, where they would receive a commendation and an offer to join the Army of Bloodstone, so Honorable General Dannaway had informed them. As intriguing as it all was, however, Entreri’s thoughts were much smaller in scope. He thought of the women who had accompanied him to the north, of how that innocent looking flute had given him a different way of viewing them.

  That new viewpoint hadn’t stopped him from killing Ellery, at least, and he took some comfort in that.

  A soft footstep behind him told him that he was not alone, and from the sound of it, the assassin understood much. She had been watching him from across the room for most of the night, after all.

  “I did not kill your friend,” he said, not turning around. “Not with intent, at least.”

  The footsteps halted, still half a dozen strides behind him. Finally he did turn, to see that his reasoning was correct. Calihye stood there, her face very tight. Entreri was relieved to see that she did not have any weapon in her hands.

  “Accept it as truth or do not,” he said to her, and he turned back to his beer. “I care little.”

  He started to raise it to his lips, but Calihye came over quickly. Her hand grasped his wrist, stopping him and making him look back up at her.

  “If you do not care whether I believe you or not, then why did you just tell me that yet again?” she asked.

  It was Entreri’s turn to stare at the half-elf.

  “Or is it that you’re simply afraid that you do care, Artemis Entreri?” Calihye teased, and she let go and stepped away.

  Entreri stood up, his chair skidding out behind him, and said, “You flatter yourself.”

  “I am still alive, am I not?” Calihye reasoned. “You could have killed me back in Palishchuk, but you didn’t.”

  “You were not worth the trouble,” Entreri said. “A soldier of the crown was under your care.”

  “You could have killed me any time, yet I am still alive, and still, perhaps, a threat to you.”

  “You do flatter yourself.”

  But Calihye wasn’t even listening to him, he realized as she stepped right up to him, her bright eyes staring into his.

  “I assure you, Artemis Entreri, that I am always worth the trouble,” she said, her voice turning husky, her breath hot on his face, her lips practically brushing his as she spoke.

  “I did not kill your friend,” Entreri reiterated, but his voice was not so strong and not so steady at that moment.

  Calihye brought her hand gently up, brushing his chest and settling on his collar, where she grasped him tight.

  “I accept that,” she said, and she pulled him closer, pulled him right into her.

  She kissed him hard and bit at his lip. Her arms went around him and pulled him even closer, and Entreri didn’t resist. His own arms went around the half-elf, crushing her into him. He brought one hand up to grab at her thick, silky black hair.

  Calihye pulled him with her as she fell atop the table—or tried to, for the pair were too far to the side and the flimsy table overturned, dumping them against a chair, which went bouncing away, and they dropped down to the floor.

  Neither cared or even noticed. They fumbled with each other’s clothing, their lips never parting.

  Artemis Entreri, surviving on the wild streets of Calimport from his boyhood days, had known many women in his life but had never before made love to a woman. Never before had the act been anything more to him than a physical release.

  Not so this time.

  When they were finished, Entreri propped himself up above Calihye and stared down at her in the quiet light of the low-burning tavern hearth. He brought his hand up to stroke the line of her facial scar, and even that didn’t seem ugly to him at that moment.

  But it was just a moment, for noise out in the corridor reminded the couple where they were and told them that the night had nearly ended. They jumped up and dressed quickly, saying not a word until they stood
facing each other, with Calihye fastening the last buttons on her shirt.

  “You are looking at my face and regretting your choice?” she asked.

  Entreri put on an incredulous expression. “Do you think yourself ugly?”

  “Do you?”

  Entreri laughed. “You are a combination of talent and beauty,” he said. “But if your vanity demands of you to coerce such compliments, then why not seek out a wizard or a priest to repair …” He stopped short, seeing the woman’s scowl.

  And Entreri understood. Without that scar, Calihye would have ranked among the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She was trim and fit, slight but not weak. Her eyes shone, as did her hair, and her features held just enough of an elf’s angular traits to make her appear exotic by human standards. Yet she kept the scar and had worn it for years, though she certainly had the financial means, by bounties alone, to be long rid of it. He thought back to their lovemaking, to the frantic beginning, the very tentative middle, and finally, the point where they both simply let go and allowed themselves to bask in the pleasure of each other. That had been no easy break-point for Entreri, so too for Calihye, he realized.

  So she could draw her sword and battle a giant without fear, but that more intimate encounter had terrified her. The scar was her defense.

  “You are beautiful, with or without the scar,” he said to her. “How ever much you wish it was not true.”

  Calihye rocked back on her heels, but as always, she was not long without a response.

  “I’m not the only one hiding behind a scar.”

  Entreri winced. “I have killed people for making such presumptions about me.”

  Calihye laughed at him and stepped closer. “Then let me make another one, Artemis Entreri,” she said, and she put her hands on his shoulders, then slid them up to cradle his face as she moved very near.

  “You will never kill me,” she said softly.

  For one of the few times in his life, Artemis Entreri had no answer.

  R.A. SALVATORE

  The Sellswords

  Book III

  ROAD OF THE PATRIARCH

  An Excerpt

  Tazmikella was out of the city in short order, moving far from the torchlit wall toward the lonely hill where she kept her modest home. At the base of that hill, in nearly complete darkness, she surveyed all the land around her, ensuring that she was alone. She moved to a wide clearing beyond a shielding line of thick pines. In the middle, she closed her eyes and slipped out of her clothes. Tazmikella hated wearing clothes, and could never understand the need of humans to hide their natural forms. She always thought that level of shame and modesty to be reflective of a race that could not elevate itself above its apparent limitations, a race that insisted on subjugating itself to godly concepts instead of standing as their own gods, in proud self-determination.