Rise of the King

by R. A. Salvatore

  “The group we fought was no small hunting party,” Wulfgar added, his voice a bit raspy as he was still clearly in pain. “And a giant with them?”

  “Aye,” Bruenor replied. “And where’s Rumblebelly?”

  Wulfgar and Drizzt exchanged nervous glances.

  “Go and find him, elf,” the dwarf said. “I ain’t likin’ him out there with so many stinkin’ orcs about.”

  “Trust in him,” Drizzt answered, but his tone didn’t sound as confident as any of them, Drizzt included, would have wanted.

  “Perhaps the war you foresaw has come in full,” Drizzt added.

  “Nesmé?”

  The drow shrugged. “Get mended and get the group moving,” he instructed. “Continue to the south—and stay along the tree line.”

  “I’m wantin’ to get to Mithral Hall and not Nesmé,” Bruenor reminded.

  “Take what we can,” Wulfgar said, and coming from him, with so many wounds evident, the advice carried more weight. “I doubt we’ll find a straight road home, and surely not a clear one.”

  “South,” Drizzt said again. “I will find you along the tree line after I see what I can learn.”

  “Find Rumblebelly,” Bruenor instructed.

  The drow nodded and slipped off into the darkness.

  As he departed, Catti-brie and Giselle returned to the wagon, the latter leading her horse, which was moving much better, the light of life back in its dark eyes.

  “Give all the blessings ye got left on me boy,” Bruenor said to Catti-brie, and he pointed to Wulfgar, who, despite his stoic resolve, occasionally winced and lurched against the pain in his side.

  Catti-brie nodded, but she didn’t seem overly pleased when Bruenor added, “We’re moving right out.”

  She didn’t argue, though. They couldn’t stay here, despite the injuries. Anyone and anything nearby had surely heard the sounds of battle, and seen the blasts of fire and lightning arrows.

  Catti-brie found herself glancing off nervously into the distance where Drizzt had disappeared. Her magic was all but exhausted. Giselle’s horse would live, but could not be ridden anytime soon. Wulfgar would no doubt rise up to meet any new challenges, but he had not fared well in that last battle, and he still had a large, barbed spear tip embedded deeply into his side, where any jostling could start the blood flowing anew.

  She looked back to the darkness and before she began her formal prayers to Mielikki, she offered a silent hope that Drizzt would keep them clear of enemies.

  The halfling’s plans were not playing out as he had imagined. He had gotten out of the orc encampment, but not alone, and in no position to come out of his goblin shaman disguise. He suspected they were coming into the area where his friends had been, and so perhaps Drizzt was nearby, but that brought him little comfort.

  How would Drizzt or any of the others know it was him, after all? And if the drow ranger was nearby, ready to strike, wouldn’t an enemy shaman be among his primary targets?

  Regis swallowed hard as he imagined a silver-streaking arrow rushing out of the darkness to blast his little skull to pieces.

  Fear inspired him, then, and he held up his hands to stop his companions, a ragtag group of goblins and orcs. Before they could even begin to question him about the delay, the phony shaman began to chant quietly—and in gibberish—and to dance about, as if in sudden and deep spellcasting.

  Regis, Shaman Kllug, stopped as abruptly as he had begun, his body frozen in a defensive crouch, his head swiveling back and forth, eyes darting around for dramatic effect.

  “What?” barked Innanig, the orc who had demanded to come along back in the encampment.

  “They are close,” Shaman Kllug announced in a harsh whisper that seemed on the edge of desperation.

  “Enemies?”

  Regis considered that for a moment, trying to improvise, looking for some way out. He imagined again silvery arrows, or maybe even a spinning warhammer, blasting him from life. He feared that some of his friends were dead at the hands of the scouting party they had obviously battled.

  So many thoughts swirled at him, biting at his sensibilities, paralyzing him with terror.

  “Drow,” he squeaked. “Our drow friends are close.”

  Orcs and goblins alike began dancing in circles, looking off nervously into the darkness at that surprising and nerve-wracking announcement.

  “Where?” Innanig demanded, and he moved nearer and towered over the diminutive shaman. Despite his intended intimidation, Regis had clearly heard the tremor in the orc’s voice.

  Still, the orc shoved him and growled, and the halfling knew that his life was on the very edge of disaster, both from within his party and without.

  Yes, Regis understood this moment all too well, for he had lived it many times over in his previous existence and even in this new incarnation, on the streets of Delthuntle. When the halfling thought about it, Innanig and his ilk weren’t much different from Bregnan Prus and the other bullies the young Spider Parrafin had suffered daily. Surely a teen-aged Bregnan Prus was not as formidable as the brutish orc standing before him, but then, Regis had been but a small child at that time.

  “Innanig,” he said slowly, calmly, and he lifted a pointing finger and even dared to tap the brute in the chest, “you do not please Gruumsh.” As he did that, Regis cleverly pulled his other arm right back through the robe’s loose sleeve inside the robe. Innanig slapped his finger aside, of course, and in the distraction and sudden movement, Regis pulled forth a small weapon, brought it up tight against the robe and pulled the trigger, moving right against the orc as he did.

  Innanig jerked and grunted at the sting as the hand crossbow bolt ripped through the fabric and pinched him in the chest.

  Confused, the brutish orc reacted violently, of course, shoving the shaman, and Regis was ready for it, turning before the orc ever slapped at him and bringing his other hand back across to deftly take the dart from the orc’s chest as he went. He spun and hopped and rushed back, putting ground between himself and the brute, where he stood pointing at Innanig and crying, “Gruumsh is angry. Gruumsh will not forgive!”

  All around him, goblins and orcs began jostling, pointing fingers and weapons and hurling curses one way or the other. Regis worried briefly that he might have started a battle here, orc against goblin, but mixed in with that trepidation was a measure of hope that he had indeed done just that. Maybe he’d find his escape in the coming commotion.

  For now, though, he focused on Innanig, standing before him and staring hatefully at him. The orc hunched his shoulders forward and clutched his chest—he could feel the burn of poison, no doubt, the disguised halfling knew.

  “Gruumsh is not happy!” the fake shaman cried loudly, demanding the attention of all as he pointed repeatedly and accusingly at Innanig. “Gruumsh is mad at you!” he shouted and hopped, and skittered backward as he landed, for now the large orc straightened.

  “Succumb,” Regis muttered, prayed, under his breath.

  Innanig took a step toward him, and fell over on his face, just dropped straight to the ground and lay in a heap, very still. He looked quite dead, but he was not, Regis knew, only sleeping, so soundly, under the influence of the infamous drow poison.

  The fake goblin shaman breathed a sigh of relief. He almost swooned with relief at dodging that moment of near disaster, but realized that he still had a lot of work to do.

  “Gruumsh! Gruumsh! Gruumsh!” he yelped, hopping about and pointing accusingly at this orc or that goblin, using the god’s name like a blunt weapon to slap his minions into obedience. And with Innanig, the strongest of the orcs, lying so still on the ground, the results proved immediate and effective.

  The group calmed around him, and looked to him for orders.

  “I will go find our dark elf allies,” he informed them. “Stay in group. Here!” He looked around, still improvising, and pointed to the fallen Innanig, whom he feared might start snoring at any moment!

  “Tend to him a
nd when he awakens, remind Innanig that Gruumsh rules, not Innanig.”

  He hustled out of the ring of orcs and goblins, rushing into the darkness, hoping that his friends were indeed nearby.

  He knew that some of the ragtag band he had left behind were likely watching him, that perhaps a couple of Innanig’s closest allies were even following him out for a bit, and hardly trusted him. He wanted to get out of this disguise, though, and as soon as possible, and certainly before he came upon his friends, particularly a certain dark elf and a rather nasty bow the ranger carried.

  He glanced back many times, looking for quiet pursuit, and finally dared to dart across an open patch of ground that brought him into a tangle of trees. At the near edge, he stared back across the long open expanse, and at perfect angle to note any silhouettes moving across the lea, even in the meager light of the darkened night.

  He saw nothing.

  He was clear of them and could become Regis once more.

  He reached for his beret.

  He was too late.

  He got hit hard in the side and was launched through the air sidelong, flying to the ground.

  Barely aware, but enough to know that he was surely in the last moments of his life.

  TRAVELING COMPANIONS

  THE BOAT ROLLED OVER A WAVE AND SPLASHED DOWN JARRINGLY, WHITE spray flying around the front of the deck.

  “Salty bath,” Afafrenfere said to Ambergris as the dwarf spat out a considerable amount of water.

  “Bah to any bath,” she replied, but cheerily.

  “We bathe often at the Monastery of the Yellow Rose,” the monk said. “It will be expected of you, as well. The desired state of cleanliness …”

  “Baths make ye sick,” Ambergris finished with a dismissive wave of her hand. “More’n these waves e’er could.”

  Almost as if in response, the prow rose again to climb another large wave. The sky above was clear, the day quite warm, but dark clouds gathered to the east above the Sea of Fallen Stars, the portent of quite a storm if these leading swells were any indication.

  The captain of the boat was not concerned, though, for he expected to make the mouth of the River Vesper and the great port city of Calaunt before the weather turned.

  The boat crashed down and Ambergris stumbled forward, catching hold of the guide rope just before she pitched forward, which would have landed her in the arms of another dwarf who came around the mainmast at the same time, a dark-bearded and slender fellow whom neither of the companions had noted before.

  “Ah, but it’d be a great catch to have ye fallin’ into me arms, eh?” he greeted the female dwarf heartily and he moved to help steady her.

  “Ain’t got me sea legs,” Ambergris replied, a bit embarrassed.

  “Aye, and ye’ll get ’em just as we put in to dock, not to doubt.” He laughed a bit too exuberantly then, drawing curious looks from Ambergris and her human companion.

  “Well met, then, Lady Ambergris!” he said and held out his hand.

  Ambergris looked at it, then at him, skeptically. “Aye, well met, then, and who ye be?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend?” Afafrenfere echoed, coming forward and on his guard. “We have been aboard this boat a tenday, and seen all there is, and all there are, and there aren’t many.”

  “One more, now,” said the dwarf. “Came aboard in Procampur when I saw ye weren’t getting off.”

  Ambergris and Afafrenfere shared puzzled and concerned looks as that curious remark sank in.

  “And who might ye be, then, what’s lookin’ for us?” Ambergris asked.

  The dwarf rocked on his heels as if taken aback. “What, ye don’t know me, then?” he asked incredulously and shook his head, but then brightened. “Bah, but it’s me accent—good one, though, eh? Bwahaha, if I telled ye that ye’re owin’ me yer lives, ye both, would ye guess me name then?”

  The companions shared another skeptical look.

  “Or if I called ye Amber Gristle O’Maul o’ the Adbar O’Mauls?” the dwarf asked.

  “You’re from Adbar?” Afafrenfere asked.

  “He’s not one from Adbar that I’m knowin’,” Ambergris insisted.

  “I am from many places,” the dwarf answered, and his accent disappeared, “though I cannot claim Citadel Adbar as one of them. I have been to Mithral Hall, however.”

  He glanced around, then smiled and hopped off to the side, moving behind some tied barrels. When he came out the other side, he was no longer a stranger to the two, indeed, no longer a dwarf.

  The sight of Jarlaxle aboard this ship in the northern reaches of the Sea of Fallen Stars had both Ambergris and Afafrenfere rocking back on their heels indeed!

  “Well met again,” Jarlaxle said with a bow and tip of his gigantic hat.

  “Of all the folk I might expect to be seein’ out here, yerself ain’t one,” Ambergris remarked.

  “That is my secret, good dwarf. Always by surprise, you see?”

  “Would that include murder?” Afafrenfere asked.

  Jarlaxle laughed. “Am I deserving of that remark? From you, good brother? From you, whom I might once have wheeled into a town square as a resting spot for pigeons?”

  The reminder of their previous meeting, when Afafrenfere had been turned into a statue by Draygo Quick’s pet medusa, had the monk stammering and at a loss for a reply.

  “Doesn’t mean we trust ye,” Ambergris dared to say.

  “I have earned a bit of that, I expect.”

  “Why are you here?” Afafrenfere asked directly.

  “In search of Effron, and of Artemis Entreri.”

  “Ain’t seen Entreri since Gauntlgrym,” said Ambergris. “And Effron? Got himself killed in Port Llast, we’re hearing.”

  “Not so,” Jarlaxle corrected. “Indeed, he was on the road to find you when he learned of your escape, from those who rescued you, in Port Llast. It would seem that he wasn’t quite fast enough to catch you.”

  Afafrenfere and Ambergris looked to each other, and nodded and smiled, clearly glad to hear that Effron had survived.

  “Might that he found Entreri, then,” Ambergris offered, and Jarlaxle shrugged.

  “They’d both have lost our trail at the coast, I’m guessing, as we were fast out to the sea.”

  “Aye, so I learned in Suzail,” Jarlaxle replied.

  “Long way behind us, Suzail.”

  “Indeed, but since I have no idea of where those two might be, and I knew that you two were aboard this fine vessel, I decided it would be worth my time to pay a visit,” Jarlaxle explained. “I’ve business in Damara, in any event, so why not share the road?”

  The two exchanged yet another look.

  “You can disembark in Calaunt, as you’ve planned,” Jarlaxle said, “though you’ll find a difficult hike through the Earthspurs and across the Glacier of the White Worm, no doubt.”

  “Last stop,” Ambergris replied.

  “Or you can sail on to Mulmaster,” the drow finished.

  “Boat’s not going to Mulmaster,” said Ambergris.

  “And we’ve been warned against traversing that particular city,” Afafrenfere added.

  “I’ve convinced the captain otherwise, so yes, we will sail next to Mulmaster,” the drow replied. “And fear not, for I can navigate the streets of Mulmaster quite easily, I assure you. The place is known to me, and knows of me.”

  Once more, Ambergris and Afafrenfere glanced to each other for support.

  “And I’ve news and stories to share, and some to hear, I hope,” Jarlaxle added.

  The two paused and seemed hardly convinced.

  “If not Mulmaster, then know that you’ve erred,” the drow told them. “You would have been much better off disembarking in Procampur than at the port of Calaunt soon before us. Your intended destination is a longer road from Procampur, but one more traveled and one far safer.”

  “I know the Earthspurs,” Afafrenfere replied. “It is high summer and the passes are not that
difficult.”

  “You knew the Earthspurs,” Jarlaxle corrected. “Before the Sundering. Much has changed, much has grown darker, in the decades since you have traveled here.”

  “It was just a few years …” Afafrenfere started to argue, but he cut himself short as he remembered the little fact that he had been asleep in an enchanted forest for nearly two decades. He gave a great sigh and shook his head. The events of the last few tendays of his consciousness were still too confusing!

  “So, Mulmaster, ye’re saying?” asked Ambergris.

  Jarlaxle nodded. “The captain will take us there.”

  “And ye can get us through?”

  Jarlaxle nodded again.

  “Why would ye?”

  “Why would I not?” Jarlaxle answered. “I prefer to share the road when I find good company and strong companions. As I told you, I seek Effron and Entreri, and they may be seeking you. And besides,” he added, tossing a wink at the dwarf, “if we are overwhelmed by enemies, I know I can outrun you.”

  “Aye, and I believe ye’d do just that,” said Ambergris, but now she too was smiling widely. As the shock of seeing Jarlaxle way out here had worn off, Ambergris had to remind herself that this drow was indeed no enemy. He had saved her from certain death at the hands of drow assassins in Luskan. He had rescued her friends from Draygo Quick, and had put them all on the road to the north. And no doubt, he had done all of that at no small personal risk. Drizzt had explained Bregan D’aerthe to her as an organization still tied to Menzoberranzan, and among those assassins seeking her in Luskan, Ambergris had learned, had been none other than a noble of the greatest House of that drow city.

  She recalled that dark night then, muttering, “Poor Stuvie,” as she considered the young dwarf she had escorted out of a tavern, and who had been murdered on the street beside her.

  She came out of her memories nodding. “Mulmaster,” she agreed. “And glad I am to share the road, a drink and a few good tales beside ye, Jarlaxle.”

  She looked to Afafrenfere as she finished, and the monk nodded.

  “Oh, I expect you’ll be gladder still as the road grows long,” the drow mercenary said, and he wore that little smirk that was so typical of Jarlaxle, the one that conveyed the likely truth that he knew more about the situation, whatever the situation might be, than the person to whom he was speaking.