Road of the Patriarch ts-3

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  "And yet, on the other side, you are faced with the unknown," Jarlaxle continued. "Other than the reputation of my kin and what you so painfully learned of the powers of the Zhengyian castle. I do not make your choice for you, my friend. I only seek to explain to you that the waves are closing and you must swim into one or the other or be destroyed. The time of neutrality has passed. I had not thought it would come to this—not so quickly, at least—but it has, and I would be remiss as a friend if I did not help you to understand."

  "A friend?" Olgerkhan roared. "A friend who brings war to Palishchuk's door?"

  "My army is not marching," Jarlaxle remarked, and at his reference to an army, he noted Wingham's eyebrows arching just a bit.

  "But you come with threats," said Olgerkhan.

  "Nay, far from it," Jarlaxle was quick to reply. "King Artemis is a man of peace. Look to the south for the winds of war, not to the north." He turned from the brutish Olgerkhan to Wingham's doubting expression, and added, "It would seem that King Gareth is not a man who shares."

  "With thieves?" Wingham dared to ask. "Who take that which is not theirs? Who lay claim to a kingdom without cause of blood or deed?"

  "Deed?" Jarlaxle replied as if wounded. "We conquered the castle, did we not? It was King Artemis who slew the dracolich, after all. Your friend beside you can testify to that, though he lay on the ground helplessly when Artemis struck the fateful blow."

  Olgerkhan bristled and seemed stung by the simple truth, but did not reply.

  "So claim the castle, and bargain with King Gareth for a barony," Wingham suggested. "Avert the war, for the sake of all."

  "A contract that would entail our fealty to Gareth, no doubt," the drow said.

  "And did you not promise exactly that when you accepted the honors bestowed upon you at King Gareth's court?"

  "A moment of duress."

  Wingham's expression soured. "You have no claim."

  Jarlaxle shrugged, again as if it did not matter. "Perhaps you will be proven correct. Perhaps not. Ultimately, the claim goes to the strongest, does it not? In the final sort of things, I mean. He who remains alive, remains alive to write the histories in a light favorable to him and his cause. Surely as worldly as you are, you know well the histories of the world, Master Wingham. Surely you recognize that armies carrying banners are almost always thieves—until they win."

  Wingham didn't flinch, and Jarlaxle knew enough about him, about people in general, to understand that he clutched at the rather pitiful—from Jarlaxle's perspective—ideal of a higher justice, of a universal truism of right and wrong. No man could be more broken, after all, than he who at last must face the truth that his king, his living god, is flawed.

  "Look forward, good Wingham," Jarlaxle offered. "The outcome is not known to you, but the result after the battle is indeed. The victor will determine which king rules the land of Vaasa. One wave will overtake the other, and will flatten all the water under its weight. That is the truth facing Palishchuk, however we might feel about it. And in that light, I would caution you to withhold your judgment about who rightfully—and more importantly, who practically—will rule in Vaasa."

  Wingham seemed to blanch for just a moment, but he squared his shoulders and firmed his jaw, his round, flat face tightening with admirable determination. "Palishchuk will not battle against King Gareth," he stated.

  "Neutrality, then?" asked the drow, and he let his expression sour. "Rarely is the course of the coward rewarded, I fear. But perhaps King Artemis will forgive—"

  "No," Wingham interrupted. "You are right in one thing, Jarlaxle. Palishchuk must not let the events around her bury her under their weight. Not without a fight. We have survived by the sword for all of our history, and so it will be again. Kill me now if you will. Kill us all if you are so thirsty for blood, but understand that if King Gareth's horn calls out for allegiance, the warriors of Palishchuk will answer that call."

  Jarlaxle's sudden smile took the half-orc off his guard, and the drow dipped a sincere and respectful bow. "I never said that you should not," Jarlaxle offered, and he turned and walked off into the night.

  He knew that the half-orc would misinterpret him, would think that his carefree attitude regarding any alliance Palishchuk might choose was a sign of supreme confidence. Jarlaxle loved irony.

  * * * * *

  "King Gareth has reached Palishchuk," Kimmuriel informed Jarlaxle the following afternoon in large and airy foyer of the main keep of Castle D'aerthe. The room had become his audience chamber, in effect, though Artemis Entreri, the man Jarlaxle had named as king, hardly spent any time in the place. He was always out along the walls, in some odd corner with a stone wall sheltering him from the increasingly cold north wind. Jarlaxle understood that his human friend was trying to keep as far away as possible from Kimmuriel and the scores of other dark elves who had come in through the magical gate the psionicist and the wizards of Bregan D'aerthe had created.

  The king's absence had not deterred Jarlaxle from playing the games of court fashion, however. Bregan D'aerthe had brought in furnishings that soon adorned every room of the keep. Jarlaxle sat on Entreri's throne, a purple and blue affair fashioned of a giant mushroom stalk and with the cap used as a fan-like backdrop. Other smaller chairs were set about, including the one directly before the throne, in which sat Kimmuriel.

  All around them, dark elves tacked tapestries up on the walls, both to defeat the intrusion of stinging daylight and to steal some of the bluster of the biting breeze. Those tapestries showed no murals to the onlookers, however, just fine black cloth, for they were folded in half, their bottom hem tacked up with the top, Kimmuriel's expression, and those of the other dark elves, reminded Jarlaxle keenly that he was asking quite a bit of his former band in making them come up to such an inhospitable environment.

  "He has made good time, given the size of his force," Jarlaxle replied. "It would seem that our little announcement made an impression."

  "You waved a wounded rothe before a hungry displacer beast," Kimmuriel remarked, an old Menzoberranyr saying. "This human, Gareth, strikes with the surety of a matron mother. Most unusual for his race."

  "He is a paladin king," Jarlaxle explained. "He is no less fanatical to his god than my mother, Lolth torment her soul eternally, was to the Spider Queen. More so than the dedication one might expect out of fallen House Oblodra, of course."

  Kimmuriel nodded and said, "Thank you."

  Jarlaxle laughed aloud.

  "You anticipated this move by Gareth, then," Kimmuriel reasoned, and there was an edge to his tone. "Yet you allowed me to expend great resources in opening the many gates to this abysmal place? The price of the cloth will come out of your fortune, Jarlaxle. Beyond that, I have only a minimal crew operating in Menzoberranzan at the height of the trading season, and almost all of my wizards have been fully engaged in transporting goods, warriors, and fodder for your expedition."

  "I did not know that he would march, no," Jarlaxle explained. "I suspected that it could come to this, though the speed of Gareth's response has surprised me, I must admit. I expected this decisive encounter to occur no earlier than next spring, if at all."

  Kimmuriel stroked his smooth, narrow black chin and looked away. After a moment of mulling it over, the psionicist offered a deferential nod to his former master.

  "There was great potential gain, and nothing to lose," Jarlaxle added.

  Kimmuriel didn't disagree. "Yet again I am reminded of why Bregan D'aerthe has not seen fit to kill you," he said.

  "Though you have come to see me as an annoyance?"

  Kimmuriel smiled—one of the very few expressions Jarlaxle had ever seen on the soulless face of that one. "This will rank as no more than a minor inconvenience, with perhaps some gain yet to be found. Whenever Jarlaxle has an idea, it seems, Bregan D'aerthe is stretched."

  "Dice have six sides for a reason, my friend. There is no thrill in surety."

  "But the win must come from more than one in s
ix," said Kimmuriel. "The Jarlaxle I knew in Menzoberranzan would not wager unless four of the sides brought a profit."

  "Do you think I have so changed my ways, or my odds?"

  "There was the matter of Calimport."

  Jarlaxle conceded that point with a nod.

  "But of course, you were caught in the thrall of a mighty artifact," said Kimmuriel. "You cannot be blamed."

  "You are most generous."

  "And, as always, Jarlaxle won out in the end."

  "It is a good habit."

  "And he chose wisely," said Kimmuriel.

  "You have a high opinion of yourself."

  "Little of what I say or think is opinion."

  True enough, Jarlaxle silently conceded. Which was exactly why he had made certain that Rai-guy, the temperamental and unpredictable wizard, was dead and Kimmuriel was still alive and in charge of Bregan D'aerthe during Jarlaxle's sabbatical.

  "And I must admit that your recent scheme has intrigued me," Kimmuriel said. "Though I know not why you insist on even visiting this Lolth-forsaken wilderness." He wrapped his arms around him as he spoke and cast a disparaging glance to the side, at a tapestry that lifted out from the wall under the weight of the howling wind rushing in through the cracks in the stone.

  "It was a good chance," Jarlaxle said.

  "It always is, when there is nothing truly to lose."

  Jarlaxle sensed the hesitance in his voice, almost as if Kimmuriel was expecting a confrontation, or an unpleasant surprise. The psionicist feared, of course, that Jarlaxle meant to challenge him and order Bregan D'aerthe into battle against King Gareth.

  "There are ways around Gareth's unexpectedly bold move," he said to reassure his former, and likely future, lieutenant.

  "There are ways through them, as well," Kimmuriel replied. "Of course."

  "The point of this wager is not to place too much on the table. I'll not lose a drow soldier here—and though I do believe that our fodder serve us well by charging into the chewing maw of Gareth's able army, in even that endeavor we must be stingy. I am not Matron Baenre, obsessed with the conquest of Mithral Hall. I do not seek a fight here—far from it."

  "Gareth will grant you nothing in a parlay," said Kimmuriel. "You say that he is acting boldly, but no less so than you did when you sent word of the rise of King Artemis."

  "He will not parlay," Jarlaxle agreed, "because we have nothing to offer to him. We will remedy that, in time."

  "So what will you say to him now?"

  "Not even farewell," Jarlaxle answered with a grin.

  Kimmuriel nodded with contentment. He glanced again at the waving tapestry, and squeezed his arms just a bit more tightly around himself, but Jarlaxle knew him well enough to realize that he was at peace.

  * * * * *

  A few miles to the south of the castle, on a field outside of Palishchuk, another warrior was anything but at peace. Olwen Forest-friend stalked about the encampment, speaking encouragement to the men and women of the Army of Bloodstone. His forest-green cloak whipped out behind him as he strode briskly from campfire to campfire. His face flushed with passion and eagerness and his legendary war axe gleamed in the firelight. For many years, his favorite weapon had been the bow, but as his agility had decreased with age, he found that running along the fringes of the battlefield no longer suited him. It hadn't taken long for Olwen to discover the thrill of close combat, nor to perfect the technique.

  "We press the walls tomorrow," he promised one group of young soldiers, who stared up at him in awe. "We'll be home through the Galenas in a matter of days."

  Their eager and grateful responses followed Olwen as he moved on to the next group, dragging a second, far thinner and more graceful figure in his wake.

  Riordan Parnell was usually charged with maintaining morale. Often in the calm before battle, the bard would entertain with stirring tales of heroic deeds and darkness shattered. But his planned performance had been sidetracked by the overwhelming presence of his ranger friend.

  He caught up to Olwen before the ranger reached the next group in line, and even dared tug on the man's sleeve to halt him, or slow him at least. That brought a warning glare, Olwen locking his bright eyes on Riordan's grasping hand then slowly lifting his gaze to meet that of the bard.

  "We have much yet to learn," Riordan said as he gently pulled away.

  "I've not the time or the desire to read the history of King Artemis."

  "It is all vague."

  "They're for taking King Gareth's hard-won land," said Olwen. "They locked themselves in a castle, and we'll knock that castle down. I see nothing vague here. But don't you worry, bard. I'll give you a song or two to write." As he made the promise, Olwen brought his war axe over his shoulder and held it firmly before him. With a nod, the ranger turned to go.

  But Riordan caught him again by the sleeve. "Olwen," he said.

  The ranger cocked his head to consider the man.

  "We do not know all of the details of Mariabronne's death," said Riordan.

  Olwen's expression hardened. "Why are you bringing Mariabronne into this?"

  "Because he fell in that castle, and you know that well. Nothing you do in there tomorrow will change that sad reality."

  Olwen turned to face Riordan squarely, his muscular chest puffed out. He slipped the axe down at the end of one arm, but the movement did little to diminish his imposing posture. "I march to King Gareth's call, and not that of a ghost," he said, "to defeat a pretender named Artemis Entreri."

  "Emelyn has been inside the castle," said Riordan. "And I have spoken with Arrayan and Olgerkhan of Palishchuk, and with Wingham. All of the indications and all of the stories—consistent tales, one and all—do not indicate treachery, but misjudgment, in the death of Mariabronne the Rover. We believe that he was felled by a monster's blow, and not due in any way to the actions, or even the inactions, of Artemis Entreri or the drow Jarlaxle."

  "And of course, it wouldn't be the way of a dark elf to create any mischief."

  It was hard for Riordan to hold his stance against that simple logic.

  "Nor for the Witch-King," the bard finally managed to counter. "From all that we have learned, Mariabronne was slain by the enduring and dastardly legacy of Zhengyi."

  "Speak not that name!" Olwen ground his teeth and the considerable muscles on his arms twisted as he rolled tight the fingers of his hands, one fist clenched on his right, the knuckles of his other hand whitening as they clamped on the axe handle.

  Riordan offered a sympathetic look, but Olwen scowled all the more.

  "And it might be that the dastardly and enduring legacy of Zhengyi is now in the hands of King Artemis," Olwen said and he brought his axe up before him to catch it again in both hands. He pulled it back a bit and slapped it hard into his right mitt for effect. "I've grown weary of that legacy."

  As much as he wanted to argue that point, Riordan Parnell found himself without an answer. Olwen nodded gruffly and spun away, then launched into another rousing cheer as he approached the next group of soldiers in line, all of whom lifted their flagons to the legendary ranger and shouted out in unison, "For Mariabronne the Rover!"

  Riordan watched his friend for a moment, but sensed the approach of another and turned to greet his cousin, Celedon Kierney.

  "It is a cheer that will rush us to bloodshed," Celedon remarked. "Olwen will be in no mood for delay when we reach this Castle D'aerthe on the morrow."

  "I cannot imagine his pain," said Riordan. "To lose a man who was as a son to him."

  "I wish Gareth had bid him stay in Damara," Celedon replied. "He is as fine a warrior as I have ever known, but he is in no humor for this."

  "You fear his judgment?"

  "As I would fear yours, or my own, if I had just lost a son. And Mariabronne was exactly that to Olwen. When word reached his ears, he cast about like a lion on the rampage, so the story claims. He went to the druids of Olean's Grove outside of Kinnery and bade them to reveal the tale in full, and
even, it is rumored, to inquire about the possibilities of reincarnation."

  Riordan blanched, but was not really surprised. "And he was refused, of course."

  "I do not know," said Celedon, "but I trust that the Great Druid of Olean's would not entertain such a notion."

  "So he will assuage his pain with his axe instead," said the bard. "I hope that King Artemis has not grown too fond of his title."

  "Or his head."

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Entreri and Jarlaxle stood on the southern wall of Castle D'aerthe, near the western tower that flanked the castle's main, south-facing gate. Behind and below them in the courtyard that had once teemed with undead monsters that had risen against their initial incursion into the castle, three hundred goblins and kobolds shifted nervously. None dared speak out, for around them stood merciless dark elf guards bearing long canes and drow priests with their trademark whips, the heads of which were living, biting snakes. Any kobold or goblin who shuffled too far out of line felt the sting of those bites, then squirmed and writhed in horrible, screaming agony on the ground before sweet death finally took it.

  Entreri and Jarlaxle hardly paid any attention to the spectacle behind them, however, for before them came the Army of Bloodstone. The main infantry marched in tight ranks in the center, flanked by heavy cavalry to either side and with batteries of longbowmen grouped behind the front ranks. The many pennants of Damara, of the Church of Ilmater, and of King Gareth waved in the brisk morning breeze, and the cadence played out on the shields of the warriors, as they had drummed when leaving the Vaasan Gate less than a tenday earlier.

  A mere fifty yards out from the castle, the procession stopped, and with remarkable precision, they moved into their defensive formations. Shields turned crisply and the front ranks fanned left and right, streaming in thin lines, then thickening again into defensive squares. Wizards danced about as if they were jesters in a court procession, waving their arms and enacting all sorts of wards and shields to deflect and defeat any incoming evocative magic. Just inside the infantry square, the archers formed their ranks, every bow with arrow ready. As the center of the line fully separated, the companions on the wall were treated to a view of the king himself, all splendid in his shining silver armor, and flanked by his powerful friends.