Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  So she had chosen. The only choice she could make, she had believed.

  But she had chosen wrong, and so now would pay.

  She noted Arathis Hune rising farther down the alley, behind Zaknafein. She noted the stealthy approach of the man and thought it curious, then more curious still when he angled not for her, but for Zaknafein’s back, his dagger bared and in hand!

  And Zaknafein was staring at her.

  “Six steps,” the weapon master corrected Arathis Hune, and Dab’nay gasped aloud at the speed of Zaknafein’s arms coming up, swords with them in backhand grips. At first she thought he had tossed the left-hand blade, spinning, but then realized that he was simply flipping it over in his grasp as it went, up and over his left shoulder, even as his right-hand sword stabbed out hard behind him.

  She saw Arathis Hune dodge slightly, but still come in for Zaknafein’s back.

  But that left-hand sword of the weapon master! Somehow, he had brought it over, turned it over, and now swept it across behind him to intercept the assassin’s dagger.

  Dab’nay could hardly keep up with Zaknafein’s movements, his sword coming back up over his right shoulder, high over his head and around, even as he began his leftward turn. She expected that high blade to come sweeping all the way around—Arathis Hune did, too, she realized from his movement—but no! Instead, Zaknafein flipped it again as it passed before him and expertly turned it to stab straight out behind him with a backhand grip, as his other blade had done earlier.

  And he was still turning, and now it was his right-hand blade that went up, then came slashing down as he completed the move, the brilliant move, a move that should have been two extensions too long, but had been executed so perfectly, so swiftly, that even the uncommonly skilled victim appeared mesmerized.

  Arathis Hune did manage to throw himself back to his right and down, saving himself from decapitation.

  But he staggered, for the blade had hit, and he clutched at the side of his neck, where a fountain of blood had already begun to spurt.

  “Six steps ahead, not three,” Zaknafein said again. “You forgot to mention the first of them: that it was Arathis Hune who used the Oblodran mind magic in an attempt to allow Duvon Tr’arach to defeat and kill me. Jarlaxle’s actions in giving me his eyepatch showed me the truth of that treachery.

  “Fifth, this last planned assassination that you would have me believe was the act of Dab’nay alone.” The weapon master laughed, as if the very notion was absurd. “You knew of Dab’nay’s efforts with the Armgos because she is not the only member of Bregan D’aerthe who has recently parlayed with them. For why would they wish Arathis Hune dead? What gain to them? And if you knew, as you just said, that it was they, the Armgos, who had arranged for Jarlaxle to be out of town, then you knew Jarlaxle was away. So why did you come here?

  “And finally, you betrayed yourself in this beyond doubt, assassin. In our fight with the foursome. For Arathis Hune does not stumble.”

  Arathis Hune stared at him, eyes wide. He slumped down to one knee, then had to put his free hand to the ground for further support, for as tightly as he might hold the wound, he could not fully stem the spurting blood.

  Dab’nay could save him. She slid her thumbs across her fingers anxiously as she considered a spell of healing. But still, she stared at Zaknafein, trying to take some measure of the man.

  She began to cast her spell, but stopped as Zaknafein approached, blade leveled at her throat.

  She expected to die.

  “Webs over webs over webs,” he said, bringing the sword tip to the tender flesh of her throat.

  Dab’nay swallowed hard. Back behind Zaknafein, Arathis Hune slumped to the ground, the blood pooling.

  Zaknafein retracted his sword and spun it over, sliding it and its partner blade into their respective sheaths once more. “I cannot pay the price of your head,” he said. “Jarlaxle will sell you to the Armgos—he is likely doing so even now, in his current dealings with Matron Soulez. I wonder if she will buy you only to blame you for her losses this night.”

  “Then kill me,” she whispered.

  Zaknafein started to reply, but stopped and simply shook his head, his expression empty.

  “I am sorry,” she whispered, the words barely audible. “I have not your courage.”

  She noted Zaknafein’s wince but couldn’t begin to decipher it.

  The weapon master ran past her, down the alleyway and out into the Menzoberranzan night.

  Dab’nay took a deep and steadying breath, then rubbed her fingers, thinking to heal Arathis Hune.

  Too late.

  Chapter 19

  When the Blood Dried

  “He died,” Matron Soulez scolded Dab’nay, who was now officially Dab’nay Armgo, and a priestess of House Barrison Del’Armgo, and no longer affiliated with Bregan D’aerthe, formally or otherwise.

  For all the good that did her.

  Dab’nay licked her lips, but didn’t verbally respond, not quite sure what Matron Soulez would want her to say. One of the four warriors of the group to which she had been assigned had indeed succumbed to his wounds, because after Dab’nay had checked on the dying Arathis Hune, she had discovered that for this one, too, it was too late for any healing spells to make a difference.

  However, Dab’nay’s instructions upon journeying out with that group had been explicit and unbending: she was to heal Uthegentel alone. Her limited repertoire of spells was to be used on the prized weapon master, Matron Soulez had told her repeatedly. The others were expendable, and now, one had been expended.

  “Our great weapon master has taken the measure of Zaknafein, and one of Jarlaxle’s lieutenants is dead,” she meekly replied to Matron Soulez’s unceasing scowl.

  “Never speak of that fight,” Matron Soulez told her in a tone brooking no debate and promising the severest of consequences should she disobey.

  Dab’nay lowered her gaze to the floor and gave a slight nod. She understood, surely. By all estimation, Zaknafein had been gaining the upper hand on Uthegentel. Barring something dramatic, Zaknafein Do’Urden would have won that contest. Matron Soulez didn’t want that to become public knowledge, of course.

  “Leave us,” Soulez told Dab’nay when another priestess, Mez’Barris, entered the room.

  “He is angry about the extraction,” Mez’Barris informed her mother as soon as Dab’nay was gone.

  “Of course he is. And you should take care of your desired patron, that his arrogance doesn’t get him killed. He might have lost, likely so, according to the five who witnessed the fight. We have underestimated this Do’Urden weapon master. I hope the same does not hold true for that Matron Malice creature.”

  “Uthegentel is young,” Mez’Barris protested. “Zaknafein was finished with Melee-Magthere before he was ever born. He hasn’t the man’s experience, surely not in actual combat.”

  Matron Soulez laughed at her and waved her silent. “One day, my beautiful Uthegentel will be done with Zaknafein,” she agreed. She noted that her daughter wanted to reply but couldn’t seem to speak her mind here.

  “You think that we should be rid of Zaknafein now, by any manner we can find,” Matron Soulez reasoned.

  “He makes Matron Malice’s family far more formidable,” Mez’Barris replied.

  “Perspective, my daughter. We are not ready to war with House Do’Urden.”

  “We would destroy them!”

  “Of course, but in so doing, we would be telling Matron Mother Baenre and the others on the Ruling Council the truth of our power. So many think to cow their enemies by showing their full strength. But they are wrong. Never forget that, my daughter. Revealing the great power of your army reveals, too, the limitation of that power and hints at how others might work around it to wound you.

  “We will let Matron Malice keep her plaything, for now, but let us make it clear to Zaknafein that his friend Jarlaxle did little to stop this lethal ambush, though Jarlaxle knew about it.”

  “
Jarlaxle did not know until the battle was over,” Mez’Barris replied, but Matron Soulez’s sigh and scowl reminded her that the truth was what they made others believe, not what had actually transpired.

  That, more than anything else, was the way of the drow.

  “Jarlaxle and his band of rogues are far too cozy with Matron Mother Baenre, and Jarlaxle’s personal friendship with Zaknafein is . . . troubling. I’ll not have Matron Mother Baenre interjecting herself into any fight we might find with House Do’Urden.” She paused and snorted, her lips and eyes narrowing. “And we both understand how badly Matron Mother Baenre, mother of that pathetic Dantrag, would like to see our beloved Uthegentel removed from the conversation.”

  “You’ve long been told that there would be a price,” a clearly unhappy Jarlaxle said to Zaknafein a few tendays later, after returning to the city to learn that his oldest companion and trusted lieutenant was dead.

  “So was he, and that did not deter his blade,” replied Zaknafein, nursing a heady ale. “Only my own blade did that, and from behind, as one would expect from a true coward.”

  “You believe that your sense of honor serves you well here? I am amazed that you are still alive.”

  “Sense of honor and a lot of preparation against those I know do not share it,” Zaknafein clarified.

  Jarlaxle bit back his retort and thought back to the times he had witnessed Zaknafein’s peculiar practice sessions, where the weapon master had worked tirelessly at that one seemingly too-long combination involving the over-the-shoulder parry, followed by the repeated backward thrusts to cover the sweeping killing blow.

  “Still, I warned you, both of you, that such a battle would prove expensive to the winner,” Jarlaxle insisted.

  “Take it out of the gold you received for Dab’nay Tr’arach,” came the sarcastic reply. “Pardon, I mean Priestess Dab’nay Armgo.”

  Jarlaxle had no immediate answer. Zaknafein wasn’t supposed to know that.

  “We cannot go to war with House Barrison Del’Armgo,” he said at length. “They are far more powerful—”

  “We?” Zaknafein interrupted simply, and the question rang with a finality to both of them.

  The weapon master finished his drink in one great gulp, then pulled himself up from the table and left the Oozing Myconid, never to return.

  Part 4

  The Afflicted

  I have learned so much from Grandmaster Kane in such a short period of time. I have learned to control my body, even to view my body, in ways I never before imagined. It is a vessel for my consciousness, and one that I can explore more deeply than ever did I know. I can manipulate my muscles to turn my hands into daggers, to stand strong against hurricane winds, even to the point where I can work my muscles individually to expel the venom of a snake or the poison of a dagger from the wound that introduced it.

  I have learned angles of attack and defense superior to those taught to me in my years at the drow academy, or even under the tutelage of my father. Perhaps even more importantly, I have learned to anticipate the exact deflections of blocking angles, so that a simple turn of my hips will allow the striking sword to pass harmlessly, guided by a subtle block by my own scimitar, or even by my hand.

  My time with the Grandmaster of Flowers has been such a marvelous exploration, within and without. The world around me, my friends around me, my wife, my coming child are all different to me now, and in a more marvelous way by far, as if the negative impulses of jealousy, fear, and reactive anger have no way through the budding embarrassment I feel for even considering them. The journey is grander, lighter, and more profound all at once.

  This, the larger picture of the world and multiverse about us, is the secret to Grandmaster Kane’s always-calm demeanor, and his always-glad and always-humble aspect. He has come to know his place, and not in any diminishing way. Nay, far from it!

  So, as I consider my time with Kane and the lasting effects of those experiences, I can say without reservation that the most important and precious thing I learned from him was gratitude.

  I am grateful every day—to strive for that in every moment is to seek perfection of the soul, in much the same way I have spent my life seeking perfection of the body, of the warrior. Now I have learned to join those two things . . . no, four things—mind, body, heart, and soul—into a singular endeavor. To raise a hand in deflection of an incoming spear is to understand the movement and to hone my muscles to the required speed and reaction, of course, but such training without discipline and an understanding of the moral implications of such battle, even the spiritual repercussions of such a fight, makes one . . . Artemis Entreri—and worse, the Artemis Entreri of old.

  There need be a reason, more than a simple justification, and when you understand that all is one, those reasons crystallize more completely and give strength to your battle, strength at once physical, intellectual, emotional, and philosophical.

  The complete warrior is more than one trained in exact and perfect movements. I have known this for a long time. Once I told Entreri that he could not beat me, not ever, because he did not fight with heart. Now, after seeing Kane, after being humbled by this man who has become so much more than human, I better understand my own words to Artemis Entreri on that long-ago day. They are sentiments that Kane could have very recently spoken to me, leaving me with no honest recourse.

  Yes, I am grateful to Kane, Grandmaster of Flowers of the Monastery of the Yellow Rose, and that which inspires my greatest gratitude is the widening perspective regarding everything about and around this consciousness I call self, regarding life itself, regarding reason itself, that reminds me to be grateful, and to learn, ever to learn.

  This is our way.

  This is our purpose.

  This is our joy.

  Our eternal joy.

  —Drizzt Do’Urden

  Chapter 20

  Flotsam

  The Year of Dwarvenkind Reborn

  Dalereckoning 1488

  “Get up!” he heard from far, far away. “Wake up, ye shark food! Get up!”

  Cold water splashed his face and ran up his nostrils, and he was vaguely aware of his own choking, that he simply wasn’t getting enough air.

  His sensibilities returned a bit more and he felt himself swaying, rolling with the undulations of the cold water about him. He crashed into something hard, shoulder and head, but it was a dull thump, again as if it had happened far, far away. He became aware of the sensation of falling, slowly, so slowly.

  Something, someone, grabbed him roughly by the hair and yanked him back up, and again he felt the water splashing about his face and up his nose and in his mouth, and again he heard the pleading, and understood now that it was a woman’s voice.

  Then he was rising, and what he felt more keenly was the water running off him, the change of pressure on him as he came out of the liquid and the rolling waves splashing at him lower and lower on his body. He sensed that he was up in the air—was he dead?

  That thought brought Wulfgar back to his senses, and he opened his eyes to find himself floating above the ocean, just above the side of a small dinghy, where a woman, Bonnie Charlee, grabbed at his legs to pull him into the boat. As soon as he was over the craft, he fell, and fell hard, crashing down into the small boat. It should have hurt more than it did, he somehow understood, but his body was numb, his feelings still distant. He rolled over, barely aware of his groaning, and there saw another person in the boat: Kimmuriel.

  “Ye couldn’t’ve let the fool down a bit easier, then?” Bonnie Charlee scolded.

  “I could have let you hang over the side, holding him by the hair until he drowned,” Kimmuriel answered, and Wulfgar thought the words and the dispassionate tone so perfectly typical.

  Wulfgar tried to sit up, but his arms would barely answer his call, and the moment he moved, a burning agony across his back had him once more on the deck, facedown, writhing.

  “Ah, but he’s going to bleed out and be dead,” Bonnie Charl
ee cried. “Be quick and get me that tar.”

  Wulfgar was lying in a way that left him staring at Kimmuriel, and the psionicist gave a little snort and made no move at all. He heard Bonnie Charlee’s harrumph as she moved over him, collecting the patch bucket they kept in all the small boats.

  “We’ve got to heat it,” she said, looking all around.

  “Look in the pail,” Kimmuriel told her, and when she did, she paused, then glanced up at the strange drow. “It is not so difficult a task,” Kimmuriel added.

  Bonnie Charlee dipped her hand into the goo and brought forth a blob, which she smeared across Wulfgar’s back. “Ye’ll have quite the scar, Wulfgar of Icewind Dale,” she said, “but at least ye won’t bleed out in me dinghy, what.”

  “We’ll need him to row as soon as he’s awake,” Wulfgar heard Kimmuriel say, but he didn’t see the drow then, for his eyes were clenched tightly as he fought against the pain of the warm tar covering his deep, open wound, pulling at the edges of his torn skin.

  “Row? He’ll be lucky if he can stand,” Bonnie Charlee replied.

  “I . . . can stand,” Wulfgar said through gritted teeth, and he pulled himself up to his elbows. He felt as if a sword were still stuck into his back, stabbing and burning with every twist. He knew he was poisoned, for he could feel the sickly stuff coursing through him, but still, with great determination, he got one foot under him and pressed upward, coming shakily to his feet in the middle of the small boat. He noted then the parade of sails gliding away from him, heading east for Luskan.

  “First wave’ll knock him over the side,” Bonnie Charlee said, shaking her head. “He’s not rowing.”

  “What happened?” Wulfgar asked, only vaguely aware of the events that had put him into the sea.

  “You missed,” Kimmuriel dryly answered.