Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  So they knew.

  Movement to the side had the combatants suddenly charging at each other, then stopping fast and going past, very near. They hooked arms, the momentum spinning them sidelong, where Zaknafein leaped out for the right-hand side of the alley, bracing and vaulting into a somersault that landed him on both his feet, squared up to a secret door that suddenly opened before him.

  Zaknafein heard the telltale clicks and spun sidelong, throwing his cloak out wide before him to catch the flying quarrels. He managed to glance over his shoulder, to see Arathis Hune similarly dodging against a different concealed door directly opposite the one that had opened before Zaknafein. And from it came a handful of drow warriors.

  From both, Zaknafein saw, looking back to his own portal.

  But no . . .

  Zaknafein paused, mouth hanging open, for the group charging him simply disappeared, vanished, as if they had been no more than an illusion. He spun again, thinking to go to his now companion, but saw a third door opening, this one from the building at the end of the alley, and out charged another handful—or was it the same one? He couldn’t be certain!

  But then, those attackers too were gone, simply vanished, and farther on, Arathis Hune too was suddenly standing alone.

  “Be done with this puny Do’Urden and come back to me,” Mez’Barris whispered to the night. The priestess squirmed uncomfortably and shook her head, still surprised that her mother, Matron Soulez, had allowed Uthegentel to be involved with this mission. True, it should not be more dangerous—indeed, not even nearly as dangerous—as many of the other battles House Barrison Del’Armgo had waged of late, with overwhelming odds in their favor this night, but there was a different play here, Mez’Barris knew.

  This fight involved Zaknafein Do’Urden, a man Uthegentel had been watching and planning to battle for more than a century, since the time when Zaknafein had been the only notable member of a minor house named Simfray. Mez’Barris understood her lover well. If he had a weakness, it was pride. There was no way he would stand behind the others of his war party and allow Zaknafein to be killed, no chance, even, that he would allow others to engage the weapon master of House Do’Urden beside him.

  This was a kill Uthegentel craved, and with witnesses, that the word could go out far and wide of his singular and glorious victory.

  With Zaknafein properly dispatched, only Dantrag Baenre himself would stand between Uthegentel and his desire to be named as the uncontested champion of Menzoberranzan.

  “Be done with this puny Do’Urden and come back to me,” she whispered again, and almost as if in answer, a drow warrior appeared, then another, a third, fourth, and fifth, materializing in midstride at the front of the Armgo compound. She tensed, worried they were under attack as two fell prone, hand crossbows presented, while the other three moved with perfect precision to follow those shots into battle.

  Just as these skilled warriors had been trained . . . at House Barrison Del’Armgo.

  The five skidded to a communal stop, all glancing about in confusion, which mirrored her own.

  Out of her chair now, Mez’Barris recognized them, warriors of her own house, one of the three supporting strike teams that had gone out with Uthegentel’s group of seven.

  “What is it?” a voice asked behind her, and she glanced back to see the priestess Ahlm’wielle, her cousin.

  “What?” she asked back.

  “You gasped, loudly,” Ahlm’wielle replied.

  Mez’Barris pointed over the balcony to the strike team, who were all up now and moving back into the compound, shaking their heads. “Something is amiss.”

  “One of the war parties has returned?” Ahlm’wielle asked incredulously, but she quickly shook off any concern.

  “It is still seventeen against two,” Mez’Barris said to calm herself.

  Ahlm’wielle wagged her finger and shook her head, correcting Mez’Barris with “Eighteen against one.”

  Mez’Barris started to agree, but stopped when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw a second Armgo war party appear, again as if they were charging into battle and had taken a wrong dimensional turn.

  Then a third party joined the other two, fifteen Armgo warriors now, all confused, all out of the battle.

  Mez’Barris leaned over the rail, peering all about for the fourth team, Uthegentel’s team.

  “Eight against one,” she whispered to herself, trying to calm her very real and growing fears.

  It didn’t sound quite as good to her.

  “A ruse!” Zaknafein cried as he completed his turn, to see a handful of warriors charging down the alley. Zaknafein surely recognized one in particular, a giant of a drow with spiked white hair and golden pins stuck through his cheeks. Yes, he knew of Uthegentel—everyone in Menzoberranzan knew of the beastly weapon master of House Barrison Del’Armgo—and that clarified all of this to him. For Dab’nay had played a role in this, he believed . . . or she had used her connections with House Barrison Del’Armgo to warn both him and Arathis Hune.

  But why? How did it make sense that she had warned them both in such a manner that might have them killing each other before the ambush had even begun?

  He didn’t have time to sort any of it out, for in came four warriors, with Uthegentel hanging back. Two charged right in at Zaknafein and Arathis Hune, the other two flanking left and right to box in the intended victims.

  Zaknafein and Arathis Hune turned back-to-back—they had practiced this technique many times, as had all of Jarlaxle’s band—any enmity between the two forgotten . . . for the moment, at least.

  Zaknafein’s turn had him intercepting the back two, the ones who had flanked, for with his two long blades, he was better able to parry against enemies coming in from either side. He heard the clash of metal behind him before he blocked, Arathis Hune working his sword and dagger to halt the charge of the middle pair.

  Out went the weapon master’s sword to the right. Out went his left-hand blade, and he followed that parry with a quick step and turn, nudging Arathis Hune as he went, signaling the man.

  Arathis Hune, too, went left, the pair circling, and so the warrior chasing Zaknafein from his right side had to halt and scramble to get his blades in line to meet the new foe. Similarly, the Armgo warrior pressing Arathis Hune from his right side now got a face full of Zaknafein, the weapon master first thrusting long to push his initial attacker back, then coming in with fury on the new opponent. Zaknafein worked his blades hard, down-angling the stabs to force the man further off balance. He almost had him but had to relent and quarter-spin back the other way to engage the charge of his initial opponent.

  Round and round went the pair, building a rhythm, coming almost all the way back to their original back-to-back position—almost, but not quite, for there, they suddenly reversed, and this time, Zaknafein’s abrupt shift caught that original opponent clearly off guard, and the weapon master was sure he had a clear hit.

  But he heard a stumble behind him, and a cry from Arathis Hune, and had to cut short his attack to help his ally. Zaknafein lifted an enemy blade just in time for the tumbling Bregan D’aerthe assassin to go rolling out of the melee. Arathis Hune came right back to his feet, blades at the ready, but none of the four attackers had pursued.

  Zaknafein recognized it first, and fast, and a good thing that was! He put his legs underneath him and leaped straight up into the air, way up high, tucking his legs to avoid two stabs and a vicious slash. Up above the blades of his three immediate enemies, the fourth still falling away from Zaknafein’s reversal, Zaknafein kicked out left and right. One of his targets got his sword up fast, cutting a gash in Zaknafein’s shin, but the weapon master accepted the sting gladly, for both of his boots found their marks, kicking each of the two in the face.

  One went flying away, straight to the ground, where his head cracked loudly on the alleyway stone, blood flowing immediately. The other staggered back, dazed, his sword wet with Zaknafein’s blood, but his nose pouring his own.<
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  The third of the group stood alone against Zaknafein, his friend fast returning. But not fast enough. Zaknafein feigned to the right, the obvious move with another enemy closing so fast from the left, but with stunning courage, the confident Zaknafein went left instead, his blades working furiously, batting aside his surprised enemy’s thrusts and stabs, working over and down in a sudden and brutal frenzy.

  He got the man in the chest, a deep stab, just as the other, his initial opponent, came in at his back.

  Without missing a movement, Zaknafein let go of his blades, caught them in backhand grips, and began stabbing them out behind him in rapid and brutal succession.

  The poor enemy behind him had never seen such a technique or such fury and had to parry and dodge as surely as if the weapon master had been facing him.

  So strong was Zaknafein’s grip, so sure and quick and balanced his reverse stabs, that no parry could move the blades far enough to one side or the other to slow his rhythm. And finally, inevitably, the Armgo drow missed a parry and caught the sword tip in the gut.

  Zaknafein whirled about, the bloody-nosed fellow coming in fast to join his gut-stabbed companion. Before he ever got there, though, the Armgo drow found himself alone, as Zaknafein worked his right-hand blade over and down, taking the cringing and wounded drow’s swords low with it. Over that descending blade went Zaknafein’s right hand, the weapon master stepping forward and putting all of his weight behind a heavy pommel punch to the face.

  Three down.

  Zaknafein leaped ahead and dove into a roll, coming around as he did to return to his feet facing his last opponent. As he rose, he noted Arathis Hune engaged with Uthegentel, the assassin twisted and low, pulling the front of that mighty black trident down with him.

  So Uthegentel hit him across the face with the butt end of the weapon. It didn’t seem so solid a blow to Zaknafein, but Arathis Hune went flying back and to the ground. He tried to rise, staggered, then simply fell over.

  Zaknafein focused on the drow nearest, not wanting to battle this one and that powerful weapon master together. The Armgo warrior fell back, though, blood still dripping from his nose, wanting nothing to do with Zaknafein.

  As he moved toward the alleyway exit, Zaknafein noted two more enemies and realized that he was doomed. He should have focused on the man standing there, he realized, but he could not, for he knew the other.

  Dab’nay Tr’arach.

  She had indeed betrayed him.

  He’d deal with her later, he thought, but winced as he did, for not only was Uthegentel Armgo now closing on him, but another Armgo warrior might get back up to join in, and worse still, the man standing beside Dab’nay was certainly a wizard, given his decorated robes, and almost certainly a high-ranking wizard in a house known to have powerful arcane spellcasters.

  Zaknafein hated priestesses of Lolth above all, but loved to fight them.

  He hated fighting wizards.

  Wizards cheated. They could melt him or shock him to death or freeze him or send him to some far-off horrid plane before he ever got close enough to strike.

  Even worse, now he couldn’t go after that one, accepting (and hopefully avoiding) a single spell before closing to melee range.

  No, Zaknafein had a bigger problem, in the form of the biggest drow he had ever seen.

  Uthegentel’s approach surprised Zaknafein, for it was not bullish. He came at Zaknafein in measured steps, that huge trident handled like a short spear in his right hand, left hand out wide to complete the balance of his crouched stance. It didn’t take Zaknafein long to understand why the powerful drow kept that second hand free, for Uthegentel put the trident through a series of spins and handoffs back and forth, the long weapon rotating in a blur before him, creating a wall of defense.

  In the few heartbeats it took Zaknafein to figure out the unorthodox maneuver, the big man almost got him, stopping the blur suddenly, and in perfect alignment to thrust that three-tined weapon fast for Zaknafein, center torso.

  Zaknafein had no time to dodge to either side, couldn’t back up fast enough to escape the extended reach of the weapon, and simply wasn’t strong enough to block the trident cold. The veteran weapon master, ever a student of the arts martial, understood all of that without thinking it. His muscles understood it; every bit of him understood it. His swords, weapons stolen from the armory of Uthegentel’s own house, came up vertically before him, perfectly aligned to take the trident between the tines, and as the immensely strong Uthegentel drove through the block, Zaknafein kept his feet planted but fell back, bending at the knees.

  Down, down, he went, so low that his shoulder blades nearly touched the ground. Uthegentel retracted, obviously to re-angle the trident downward at the low-bending weapon master, but before he could even do that, Zaknafein came back up a short way, then stopped abruptly and, with perfect muscle control, transferred his momentum fully into his legs, leaping out backward, backflipping to land on his feet.

  And, angled forward, he came right back in with blinding speed, leaping up and stomping down on the trident to drive it lower, his left foot lifting and kicking out ahead to slam Uthegentel in the face.

  The bulky Armgo weapon master staggered back a step, but shook it away, seeming more surprised than hurt, and with fantastic agility and speed, Uthegentel got his trident up in time to fend off Zaknafein’s ensuing sword barrage.

  But Zaknafein had the advantage now and pressed ferociously. On his heels, Uthegentel cut a powerful two-hand parry, then kept the trident in his right hand, his left going to his belt and producing a net.

  Zaknafein had heard about this second weapon, a net magically strengthened and enchanted to attack its target on its own.

  Uthegentel swept his left hand across and Zaknafein could sense the net as if it were a sentient animal, biting at him. But he didn’t relent—he couldn’t relent. On he pressed, swords banging against that trident in rapid succession, Zaknafein pushing ahead.

  Again Uthegentel swept the net across, this time letting it fly.

  Zaknafein hit it a dozen times, his blades angling perfectly to stop the magical item from widening to grasp at him. The net flew past harmlessly, and Zaknafein went right back in at the hulking drow, furiously striking, stabbing, slashing—anything to keep Uthegentel back on his heels. He didn’t know if he could finish Uthegentel then, but he certainly had stolen the advantage.

  But then . . . he missed, Uthegentel cleverly dipping his trident, then coming back in behind Zaknafein’s left-hand slash across to stab hard.

  Zaknafein’s right-hand sword swept in to deflect as he spun desperately, dropping his left foot back and circling backward right around, and again, his balance perfect, he regained the upper hand.

  “Enough!” he heard from the alleyway, from the wizard.

  Expecting a devastating spell, Zaknafein went tumbling away defensively, throwing his magical piwafwi cloak about him as a shield.

  But the wizard wasn’t casting a lightning bolt or missiles of magical energy, and wasn’t aiming at Zaknafein anyway. He held a small rod out before him horizontally in both hands, then simply snapped it in half, releasing the encapsulated dweomer.

  Uthegentel roared in protest, but his voice warped as his physical form wavered, flapping like laundry in a strong wind.

  The wizard likewise distorted and twisted like some empty fabric, and both were gone, poof, leaving Zaknafein, four wounded Armgo soldiers, Arathis Hune (who was still inexplicably facedown on the ground), and a shocked and clearly terrified Dab’nay standing in the alleyway’s open exit.

  The priestess shook her head slowly, staring at him, mouthing something he could not hear—but Zaknafein was confident that she was not trying to cast a spell. Her shoulders trembled slightly, perhaps from sobs.

  “Well, we won and you are deserted,” Zaknafein said to her, flipping his bloodied swords, deftly rubbing them across the clothes of the nearest body to clean them, then returning them skillfully to their sheaths. He
glanced to the side to see a wounded Armgo warrior crawling for one of the alleyway’s exits. “Did you really believe that you could succeed at this, priestess?”

  “Yes, Dab’nay the Unthinking,” Arathis Hune chimed in. Zaknafein hid his smile, but he was not surprised. “Did you expect a different outcome? Do you think Jarlaxle would elevate fools to his side? We knew. Of course we knew! And if you ever hoped to ascend in Bregan D’aerthe, you should have anticipated that Zaknafein and I would be three steps ahead of your deceptions.

  “First,” he continued, “I knew that you have been bedding Zaknafein for a long time, but for your own gain. Second, that gain is a product of elimination, both of us out of your way, and how convenient that Jarlaxle is not around. For with him near, we could not engage, of course. And where is Jarlaxle this night?”

  Dab’nay’s gaze never left Zaknafein, her stare locking his and holding it fast.

  “Third,” Arathis went on, quite confidently it seemed, “you have been courting the favor of the particularly vicious Soulez Armgo. What gain might Dab’nay find by eliminating one of us, when eliminating both would put her by Jarlaxle’s side in Bregan D’aerthe? Jarlaxle who is, by the way, out of the city on business with the Armgos, of course!”

  Zaknafein saw a slight shake of Dab’nay’s head, but it was clear that the woman was defeated here, wholly so, emotionally so. She didn’t even have the heart to argue, it seemed to the perceptive Zaknafein.

  “Three steps ahead,” Arathis Hune reiterated lightly, tauntingly. “And now your intended victim will put the blade to you.”

  Zaknafein noted a flare of sudden confusion in Dab’nay’s red eyes.

  He wasn’t surprised by it.

  Her overriding feeling was guilt, not fear. Dab’nay fully expected that she was about to die—her feeble repertoire of spells couldn’t begin to protect her from either of these skilled killers, let alone both.

  Strangely, though, she almost welcomed that. All of this had churned at her for so long, tearing her apart inside. She didn’t want Zaknafein dead! She didn’t even want Arathis Hune killed. But her situation had been wholly untenable.