Promise of the Witch King ts-2

by Robert Anthony Salvatore

  Despite himself, Artemis Entreri could not help but smile. The movements of the halflings, the passion, the food, the drink, all of it, reminded him so much of some of his closest friends back in Calimport, of Dwahvel Tiggerwillies and fat Dondon.

  The giant died in Hobart's tale—and the halfling giant died on the rock with great dramatic flourish—and the entire troupe took up the chant of, "Kneebreakers! Kneebreakers!"

  They danced, they sang, they cheered, they ate, and they drank. On it went, long into the night.

  Artemis Entreri had perfected the art of sleeping light many years before. The man could not be caught by surprise, even when he was apparently sound asleep. Thus, the stirring of his partner had him wide awake in moments, still some time before the dawn. All around them, the Kneebreakers snored and grumbled in their dreams, and the few who had been posted as sentries showed no more signs of awareness.

  Jarlaxle looked at Entreri and winked, and the assassin nodded curiously. He followed the drow to the sleeping halfling with the bag of ears, which was set amid several other bags of equal or larger size next to the halfling that served as the pack mule for the Kneebreakers. With a flick of his long, dexterous fingers, Jarlaxle untied the bag of ears. He slid it out slowly then moved silently out of camp, the equally quiet Entreri close behind. Getting past the guards without being noticed was no more difficult than passing a pile of stones without having them shout out.

  The pair came to a clearing under the light of the waning moon. Jarlaxle popped a button off of his fine waistcoat, grinning at Entreri all the while. He pinched it between his fingers, then snapped his wrist three times in rapid succession.

  Entreri was hardly surprised when the button elongated and widened, and its bottom dropped nearly to the ground, so that it looked as if Jarlaxle was holding a stovepipe hat that would fit a mountain giant.

  With a nod from Jarlaxle, Entreri overturned the bag of ears and began scooping them into Jarlaxle's magical button bag. The drow stopped him a couple of times, indicating that he should leave a few, including one of the giant ears.

  A snap of Jarlaxle's wrist then returned his magical bag to its inauspicious button form, and he put it on the waistcoat in its proper place and tapped it hard, its magic re-securing it to the material. He motioned for Entreri to move away with him then produced, out of thin air of course, a dust broom. He brushed away their tracks.

  Entreri started back toward the halfling encampment, but Jarlaxle grabbed him by the shoulder to stop him. The drow offered a knowing wink and drew a slender wand from an inside pocket of his great traveling cloak. He pointed the wand at the discarded bag and the few ears, then spoke a command word.

  A soft popping sound ensued, accompanied by a puff of smoke, and when it cleared, standing in place of the smoke was a small wolf.

  "Enjoy your meal," Jarlaxle instructed the canine, and he turned and headed back to camp, Entreri right behind. The assassin glanced back often, to see the summoned wolf tearing at the ears, then picking up the bag and shaking it all about, shredding it.

  Jarlaxle kept going, but Entreri paused a bit longer. The wolf scrambled around, seeming very annoyed at being deprived of a further meal, Entreri reasoned, for it began to disintegrate, its temporary magic expended, reducing it to a cloud of drifting smoke.

  The assassin could only stare in wonder.

  They had barely settled back into their blankets when the first rays of dawn peeked over the eastern horizon. Still, many hours were to pass before the halflings truly stirred, and Entreri found some more much-needed sleep.

  The sudden tumult in camp awakened him around highsun. He groggily lifted up on his elbows, glancing around in amusement at the frantic halflings scrambling to and fro. They lifted stones and kicked remnants of the night's fire aside. They peeked under the pant legs of comrades, and often got kicked for their foolishness.

  "There is a problem, I presume," Entreri remarked to Jarlaxle, who sat up and stretched the weariness from his body.

  "I do believe our little friends have misplaced something. And with all the unorganized commotion, I suspect they'll be long in finding it."

  "Because a bag of ears would hear them coming," said Entreri, his voice as dry as ever.

  Jarlaxle laughed heartily. "I do believe that you are beginning to figure it all out, my friend, this journey we call life."

  "That is what frightens me most of all."

  The two went silent when they noted Hobart and a trio of very serious looking fellows staring hard at them. In procession, with the three others falling respectfully two steps behind the Knee-breaker commander, the group approached.

  "Suspicion falls upon us," Jarlaxle remarked. "Ah, the intrigue!"

  "A fine and good morning to you, masters Jarlaxle and Entreri," Hobart greeted, and there was nothing jovial about his tone. "You slept well, I presume."

  "You would be presuming much, then," said Entreri.

  "My friend here, he does not much enjoy discomfort," explained Jarlaxle. "You would not know it from his looks or his reputation, but he is, I fear, a bit of a fop."

  "Every insult duly noted," Entreri said under his breath.

  Jarlaxle winked at him.

  "An extra twist of the blade, you see," Entreri promised.

  "Am I interrupting something?" Hobart asked.

  "Nothing you would not be interrupting in any case if you ever deign to speak to us," said Entreri.

  The halfling nodded then looked at Entreri curiously, then similarly at Jarlaxle, then turned to regard his friends. All four shrugged in unison.

  "Did you sleep the night through?" Hobart asked.

  "And most of the morning, it would seem," Jarlaxle answered.

  "Bah, 'tis still early."

  "Good sir halfling, I do believe the sun is at its zenith," said the drow.

  "As I said," Hobart remarked. "Goblin hunting's best done at twilight. Ugly little things get confident when the sun wanes, of course. Not that they ever have any reason to be confident."

  "Not with your great skill against them, to be sure."

  Hobart eyed the drow with clear suspicion. "We're missing something," he explained. "Something you'd be interested in."

  Jarlaxle glanced Entreri's way, his expression not quite innocent and wide-eyed, but more curious than anything else—the exact look one would expect from someone intrigued but fully ignorant of the theft. Entreri had to fight hard to keep his own disinterested look about him, for he was quite amused at how perfectly Jarlaxle could play the liars' game.

  "Our bag of ears," said Hobart.

  Jarlaxle blew a long sigh. "That is troubling."

  "And you will understand why we have to search you?"

  "And our bedrolls, of course," said the drow, and he stepped back and held his cloak out wide to either side.

  "We'd see it if it was on you," said Hobart, "unless it was magically stored or disguised." He motioned to one of the halflings behind him, a studious looking fellow with wide eyes, which he blinked continually, and thin brown hair sharply parted and pushed to one side. Seeming more a scholar than a warrior, the little one drew out a long blue wand.

  "To detect magic, I presume," Jarlaxle remarked.

  Hobart nodded. "Step apart, please."

  Entreri glanced at Jarlaxle then back to the halfling. With a shrug he took a wide step to the side.

  The halfling pointed his wand, whispered a command, and a glow engulfed Entreri for just a moment then was gone.

  The halfling stood there studying the assassin, and his wide eyes kept going to Entreri's belt, to the jeweled dagger on one hip then to the sword, powerfully enchanted, on the other. The halfling's face twisted and contorted, and he trembled.

  "You would not want either blade to strike you, of course," said Jarlaxle, catching on to the silent exchange where the wand was clueing the little wizard in to just how potent the human's weapons truly were.

  "You all right?" Hobart asked, and though the wand-wielder co
uld hardly draw a breath, he nodded.

  "Turn around, then," Hobart bid Entreri, and the assassin did as he was asked, even lifting his cloak so the prying little scholar could get a complete picture.

  A few moments later, the wand-wielder looked at Hobart and shook his head.

  Hobart held his hand out toward Jarlaxle, and the other halfling lifted his wand. He spoke the command once more and the soft glow settled over a grinning Jarlaxle.

  The wand-wielder squealed and fell back, shading his eyes.

  "What?" Hobart asked.

  The other one stammered and sputtered, his lips flapping, and kept his free hand up before him.

  Entreri chuckled. He could only imagine the blinding glow of magic that one saw upon the person of Jarlaxle!

  "It's not… there's… I mean… never before… not in King Gareth's own…"

  "What?" Hobart demanded.

  The other shook his head so rapidly that he nearly knocked himself over.

  "Concentrate!" demanded the Kneebreaker commander. "You know what you're looking for!"

  "But… but… but…" the halfling managed to say through his flapping lips.

  Jarlaxle lifted his cloak and slowly turned, and the poor halfling shielded his eyes even more.

  "On his belt!" the little one squealed as he fell away with a gasp. His two companions caught him before he tumbled, and steadied him, straightening him and brushing him off. "He has an item of holding on his belt," the halfling told Hobart when he'd finally regained his composure. "And another in his hat."

  Hobart turned a wary eye on Jarlaxle.

  The drow, grinning with confidence, unfastened his belt—with a command word, not through any mundane buckle—and slid the large pouch free, holding it up before him.

  "This is your point of reference, yes?" he asked the wand-wielder, who nodded.

  "I am found out, then," Jarlaxle said dramatically, and he sighed.

  Hobart scowled.

  "A simple pouch of holding," the drow explained, and tossed it to Hobart. "But take care, for within lies my precious Cormyrean brandy. I know, I know, I should have shared it with you, but you are so many, and I feared its potent effect on ones so little."

  Hobart pulled the bottle from the pouch and held it up to read the label. His expression one of great approval, he slid it back into the pouch. Then he rummaged through the rest of the magical container, nearly climbing in at one point.

  "We share the brandy, you and I, a bit later?" Jarlaxle proposed when Hobart was done with the pouch.

  "Or if that hat of yours is holding my ears, I take it for my own, drink just enough to quench my thirst and use the rest as an aid in lighting your funeral pyre."

  Jarlaxle laughed aloud. "I do so love that you speak directly, good Sir Bracegirdle!" he said.

  He bowed and removed his hat, brushing it across the ground, then spun it to Hobart.

  The halfling started to fiddle with it, but Jarlaxle stopped him with a sharp warning.

  "Return my pouch first," he said, and the four halflings looked at him hard. "You do not wish to be tinkering with two items of extra-dimensional nature."

  "Rift. Astral. Bad," Entreri explained.

  Hobart stared at him then at the amused drow and tossed the pouch back to Jarlaxle. The Kneebreaker commander began inspecting the great, wide-brimmed hat, and after a moment, discovered that he could peel back the underside of its peak.

  "A false compartment?" he asked.

  "In a sense," Jarlaxle admitted, and Hobart's expression grew curious as the flap of cloth came out fully in his hand, leaving the underside of the peak intact, with no compartment revealed. The halfling then held up the piece of black cloth, a circular swatch perhaps half a foot in diameter.

  Hobart looked at it, looked around, casually shrugged, and shook his head. He tossed the seemingly benign thing over his shoulder.

  "No!" Jarlaxle cried, but too late, for the spinning cloth disk elongate in the air and fell at the feet of Hobart's three companions, widening and opening into a ten foot hole.

  All three squealed and tumbled in.

  Jarlaxle put his hands to his face.

  "What?" Hobart asked. "What in the six hundred and sixty-six layers of the Abyss?"

  Jarlaxle slipped his belt off and whispered into its end, which swelled and took on the shape of a snake's head. The whole belt began to grow and come alive.

  "They are all right?" the drow casually asked of Hobart, who was at the edge of the hole on his knees, shouting down to his companions. Other Kneebreakers had come over as well, staring into the pit or scrambling around in search of a rope or a branch to use as a ladder.

  Jarlaxle's snake-belt slithered over the edge.

  Hobart screamed and drew his weapon, a beautifully designed short sword with a wicked serrated edge.

  "What are you doing?" he cried and seemed about to cleave the snake.

  Jarlaxle held up his hand, bidding patience. Even that small delay was enough, for the fast-moving and still growing snake was completely in the pit by then, except for the tip of its tail, which fastened itself securely around a nearby root.

  "A rope of climbing," the drow explained. Hobart surveyed the scene. "Have one take hold and the rope will aid him in getting out of the pit."

  It took a few moments and another use of the wand to confirm the claim, but soon the three shaken but hardly injured halflings were back out of the hole. Jarlaxle walked over and calmly lifted one edge of the extra-dimensional pocket. With a flick of his wrist and a spoken command, it fast reverted to a cloth disk that would fit perfectly inside the drow's great hat. At the same time, the snake-rope slithered up Jarlaxle's leg and crawled around his waist, obediently winding itself inside the belt loops of his fine trousers. When it came fully around, the «head» bit the end of the tail and commenced swallowing it until the belt was snugly about the drow's waist.

  "Well…" the obviously flustered Hobart started to say, staring at the wand-wielder. "You think.. " Hobart tried to go on. "I mean, is there…?"

  "I should have killed you in Calimport," Entreri said to Jarlaxle.

  "For the sake of a flustered halfling, of course," the drow replied.

  "For the sake of my own sanity."

  "Truer than you might realize."

  "A-anything else you need to look at on that one?" Hobart finally managed to sputter.

  The wand-wielder shook his head so forcefully that his lips made popping and smacking noises.

  "Consider my toys," Jarlaxle said to Hobart. "Do you really believe that your ears are of such value to me that I would risk alienating so many entertaining and impressive newfound friends in acquiring them?"

  "He's got a point," said the halfling standing next to Hobart.

  "All the best to you in your search, good Sir Bracegirdle," said Jarlaxle, taking his hat back and replacing the magical cloth. "My offer for brandy remains."

  "I expect you would favor a drink right now," Entreri remarked.

  "Though not as much as that one," he added, indicating the flabbergasted, terrified, and stupefied wand-wielder.

  "Medicinal purposes," Jarlaxle added, looking at the trembling little halfling.

  "He's lucky you didn't strike him blind," added Entreri.

  "Would not be the first time."

  "Stunning."

  CHAPTER SIX

  IN WATERS TOO DEEP

  Black spots circled and danced before her eyes and a cold sweat was general about her body, glistening, it seemed, from every pore.

  Arrayan tried to stand straight and hold fast to her concentration, but those spots! She put one foot in front of the other, barely inching her way to the door across the common room of her tiny home.

  Three strides will take me to it, she thought, a sorry attempt at willing herself to shake her state of disorientation and vertigo and just take the quick steps.

  The knocking continued even more insistently.

  Arrayan smiled despite her condition. From
the tempo and frantic urgency of the rapping, she knew it was Olgerkhan. It was always Olgerkhan, caring far too much about her.

  The recognition of her dear old friend emboldened Arrayan enough for her to fight through the swirling black dots of dizziness for just a moment and get to the door. She cracked it open, leaning on it but painting an expression that tried hard to deny her weariness.

  "Well met," she greeted the large half-orc.

  A flash of concern crossed Olgerkhan's face as he regarded her, and it took him a long moment to reply, "And to you."

  "It is far too early for a visit," Arrayan said, trying to cover, though she could tell by the position of the sun, a brighter spot in the typically gray Palishchuk sky, that it was well past mid-morning.

  "Early?" Olgerkhan looked around. "We will go to Wingham's, yes? As we agreed?"

  Arrayan had to pause a moment to suppress a wave of nausea and dizziness that nearly toppled her from the door.

  "Yes, of course," she said, "but not now. I need more sleep. It's too early."

  "It's later than we agreed."

  "I didn't sleep well last night," she said. The effort of merely standing there was starting to take its toll. Arrayan's teeth began to chatter. "You understand, I'm sure."

  The large half-orc nodded, glanced around again, and stepped back.

  Arrayan moved her hand and the weight of her leaning on the door shut it hard. She turned, knowing she had to get back to her bed, and took a shaky step away, then another. The inching along wouldn't get her there in time, she knew, so she tried a quick charge across the room.

  She got one step farther before the floor seemed to reach up and swallow her. She lay there for a long moment, trying to catch her breath, trying with sheer determination to stop the room from spinning. She would have to crawl, she knew, and she fought hard to get to her hands and knees to do just that.

  "Arrayan!" came a shout from behind her, and it sounded like it was a hundred miles away.