Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords

by R. A. Salvatore

  Oh, how it wanted him!

  He felt a twitching in his cheek, an excitement upon his skin, and wondered if he would combust. Entreri forced that notion away and concentrated again on winning the mental battle.

  The sentient sword pulled and pulled, relentlessly, and Entreri could hear something akin to laughter in his head, a supreme confidence that reminded him that Charon’s Claw would not tire, but he surely would. Another thought came, the realization that he could not even let go of the weapon if he chose to, that he had locked in this combat and there could be no turning back, no surrender.

  That was the ploy of the devilish sword, to impart a sense of complete hopelessness on the part of anyone challenging it, to tell the challenger, in no uncertain terms, that the fight would be to the bitter and disastrous end. For so many before Entreri, such a message had resulted in a breaking of the spirit that the sword had used as a springboard to complete its victory.

  But with Entreri, the ploy only brought forth greater feelings of rage, a red wall of determined and focused anger and denial.

  “You are mine!” the assassin growled through gritted teeth. “You are a possession, a thing, a piece of beaten metal!” He lifted the gleaming red blade before him and commanded it to bring forth its black light.

  It did not comply. The sword kept attacking Entreri as it had attacked Kohrin Soulez, trying to defeat him mentally that it might burn away his skin, trying to consume him as it had so many before him.

  “You are mine,” he said again, his voice calm now, for while the sword had not relented its attack, Entreri’s confidence that he could fend that attack began to rise.

  He felt a sudden sting within him, a burning sensation as Charon’s Claw threw all of its energy into him. Rather than deny it he welcomed that energy and took it from the sword. It mounted to a vibrating crescendo and broke apart.

  The black light appeared in the small room, and Entreri’s smile gleamed widely within it. The light was confirmation that Entreri had overwhelmed Charon’s Claw, that the sword was indeed his now. He lowered the blade, taking several deep breaths to steady himself, trying not to consider the fact that he had just come back from the very precipice of obliteration.

  That did not matter anymore. He had beaten the sword, had broken the sword’s spirit, and it belonged to him now as surely as did the jeweled dagger he wore on his other hip. Certainly he would ever after have to take some measure of care that Charon’s Claw would try to break free of him, but that was, at most, a cursory inconvenience.

  “You are mine,” he said again, calmly, and he commanded the sword to dismiss the black light.

  The room was again bathed in only candlelight. Charon’s Claw, the sword of Artemis Entreri, offered no arguments.

  Jarlaxle thought he knew. Jarlaxle thought that he had won the day.

  Because Crenshinibon made him think that. Because Crenshinibon wanted the battle between the mercenary leader and his upstart lieutenants to be an honest one, so that it could then determine which would be the better wielder.

  The Crystal Shard still favored Rai-guy, because it knew that drow to be more ambitious and more willing, even eager, to kill.

  But the possibilities here with Jarlaxle did not escape the artifact. Turning him within the layers of deception had been no easy thing, but indeed, Crenshinibon had taken Jarlaxle exactly to that spot where it had desired he go.

  At dawn the very next morning, a second crystalline tower was erected at Dallabad Oasis.

  CHAPTER

  FLIPPING THE HOURGLASS

  13

  You understand your role in every contingency?” Entreri asked Dwahvel at their next meeting, an impromptu affair conducted in the alley beside the Copper Ante, an area equally protected from divining wizards by Dwahvel’s potent anti-spying resources.

  “In every contingency that you have outlined,” the halfling replied with a warning smirk.

  “Then you understand every contingency,” Entreri answered without hesitation. He returned her grin with one of complete confidence.

  “You have thought every possibility through?” the halfling asked doubtfully. “These are dark elves, the masters of manipulation and intrigue, the makers of the layers of their own reality and of the rules within that layered reality.”

  “And they are not in their homeland and do not understand the nuances of Calimport,” Entreri assured her. “They view the whole world as an extension of Menzoberranzan, an extension in temperament, and more importantly, in how they measure the reactions of those around them. I am iblith, thus inferior, and thus, they will not expect the turn their version of reality is about to take.”

  “The time has come?” Dwahvel asked, still doubtfully. “Or are you bringing the critical moment upon us?”

  “I have never been a patient man,” Entreri admitted, and his wicked grin did not dissipate with the admission but intensified.

  “Every contingency,” Dwahvel remarked, “thus every layer of the reality you intend to create. Beware, my competent friend, that you do not get lost somewhere in the mixture of your realities.”

  Entreri started to scowl but held back the negative thoughts, recognizing that Dwahvel was offering him sensible advice here, that he was playing a most dangerous game with the most dangerous foes he had ever known. Even in the best of circumstances, Artemis Entreri realized that his success, and therefore his very life, would hang on the movements of a split second and would be forfeited by the slightest turn of bad luck. This culminating scenario was not the precision strike of the trained assassin but the desperate move of a cornered man.

  Still, when he looked at his halfling friend, Entreri’s confidence and resolve were bolstered. He knew that Dwahvel would not disappoint him in this, that she would hold up her end of the reality-making process.

  “If you succeed, I’ll not see you again,” the halfling remarked. “And if you fail, I’ll likely not be able to find your blasted and torn corpse.”

  Entreri took the blunt words for the offering of affection that he knew they truly were. His smile was wide and genuine—so rare a thing for the assassin.

  “You will see me again,” he told Dwahvel. “The drow will grow weary of Calimport and will recede back to their sunless holes where they truly belong. Perhaps it will happen in months, perhaps in years, but they will eventually go. That is their nature. Rai-guy and Kimmuriel understand that there is no long-term benefit for them or for Bregan D’aerthe in expanding any trading business on the surface. Discovery would mean all-out war. That is the main focus of their ire with Jarlaxle, after all. So they will go, but you will remain, and I will return.”

  “Even if the drow do not kill you now, am I to believe that your road will be any less dangerous once you’re gone?” the halfling asked with a snort that ended in a grin. “Is there any such road for Artemis Entreri? Not likely, I say. Indeed, with your new weapon and that defensive gauntlet, you will likely take on the assassinations of prominent wizards as your chosen profession. And, of course, eventually one of those wizards will understand the truth of your new toys and their limitations, and he will leave you a charred and smoking husk.” She chuckled and shook her head. “Yes, go after Khelben, Vangerdahast, or Elminster himself. At least your death will be painlessly quick.”

  “I did say I was not a patient man,” Entreri agreed.

  To his surprise, and to the halfling’s as well, Dwahvel then rushed up to him and leaped upon him, wrapping him in a hug. She broke free quickly and backed away, composing herself.

  “For luck and nothing more,” she said. “Of course I prefer your victory to that of the dark elves.”

  “If only the dark elves,” Entreri said, needing to keep this conversation lighthearted.

  He knew what awaited him. It would be a brutal test of his skills—of all of his skills—and of his nerve. He walked the very edge of disaster. Again, he reminded himself that he could indeed count on the reliability of one Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, that most
competent of halflings. He looked at her hard then and understood that she was going to play along with his last remark, was not going to give him the satisfaction of disagreeing, of admitting that she considered him a friend.

  Artemis Entreri would have been disappointed in her if she had.

  “Beware that you do not catch yourself within the very layers of lies that you have perpetrated,” Dwahvel said after the assassin as he started away, already beginning to blend seamlessly into the shadows.

  Entreri took those words to heart. The potential combinations of the possible events was indeed staggering. Improvisation alone might keep him alive in this critical time, and Entreri had survived the entirety of his life on the very edge of disaster. He had been forced to rely on his wits, on complete improvisation, dozens of times, scores of times, and had somehow managed to survive. In his mind, he held contingency plans to counter every foreseeable event. While he kept confidence in himself and in those he had placed strategically around him, he did not for one moment dismiss the fact that if one eventuality materialized that he had not counted on, if one wrong turn appeared before him and he could not find a way around that bend, he would die.

  And, given the demeanor of Rai-guy, he would die horribly.

  The street was busy, as were most of the avenues in Calimport, but the most remarkable person on it seemed the most unremarkable. Artemis Entreri, wearing the guise of a beggar, kept to the shadows, not moving suspiciously from one to another, but blending invisibly against the backdrop of the bustling street.

  His movements were not without purpose. He kept his prey in sight at every moment.

  Sharlotta Vespers attempted no such anonymity as she moved along the thoroughfare. She was the recognized figurehead of House Basadoni, walking bidden into the domain of dangerous Pasha Da’Daclan. Many suspicious, even hateful eyes cast more than the occasional glance her way, but none would move against her. She had requested the meeting with Da’Daclan, on orders from Rai-guy, and had been accepted under his protection. Thus, she walked now with the guise of complete confidence, bordering on bravado.

  She didn’t seem to realize that one of those watching her, shadowing her, was not under any orders from Pasha Da’Daclan.

  Entreri knew this area well, for he had worked for the Rakers on several occasions in the past. Sharlotta’s demeanor told him without doubt that she was coming for a formal parlay. Soon enough, as she passed one potential meeting area after another, he was able to deduce exactly where that meeting would take place. What he did not know, however, was how important this meeting might be to Rai-guy and Kimmuriel.

  “Are you watching her every step with your strange mind powers, Kimmuriel?” he asked quietly

  His mind worked through the contingency plans he had to keep available should that be the case. He didn’t believe that the two drow, busy with planning of their own, no doubt, would be monitoring Sharlotta’s every move, but it was certainly possible. If that came to pass, Entreri realized that he would know it, in no uncertain terms, very soon. He could only hope that he’d be ready and able to properly adjust his course.

  He moved more quickly then, outpacing the woman by taking the side alleys, even climbing to one roof, and scrambling across to another and to another.

  Soon after, he reached the house bordering the alley he believed Sharlotta would turn down, a suspicion only heightened by the fact that a sentry was in position on that very roof, overlooking the alley on the far side.

  As silent as death, Entreri moved into position behind the sentry, with the man’s attention obviously focused on the alleyway and completely oblivious to him. Working carefully, for he knew that others would be about, Entreri spent some amount of time casing the entire area, locating the two sentries on the rooftops across the way and one other on this side of the alley, on the adjoining roof of a building immediately behind the one Entreri now stood upon.

  He watched those three more than the man directly in front of him, measured their every movement, their every turn of the head. Most of all, he gauged their focus. Finally, when he was certain that they were not attentive, the assassin struck, yanking his victim back behind a dormer.

  A moment later, all four of Pasha Da’Daclan’s sentries seemed in place once more, all of them honestly intent on the alleyway below as Sharlotta Vespers, a pair of Da’Daclan’s guards at her back, turned into the alleyway.

  Entreri’s thoughts whirled. Five enemy soldiers, and a supposed comrade who seemed more of an enemy than the others. He didn’t delude himself into thinking that these five were alone. Da’Daclan’s stooges probably included a significant portion of the scores of people milling about on the main avenue.

  Entreri went anyway, rolling over the edge of the roof of the two-story building, catching hold with his hand, stretching to his limit, and dropping agilely to the surprised Sharlotta’s side.

  “A trap,” he whispered harshly, and he turned to face the two soldiers following her and held up his hand for them to halt. “Kimmuriel has a dimensional portal in place for our escape on the roof.”

  Sharlotta’s facial expression went from surprise to anger to calm so quickly, each one buried in her practiced manner, that only Entreri caught the range of expressions. He knew that he had her befuddled, that his mention of Kimmuriel had given credence to his outlandish claim that this was a trap.

  “I will take her from here,” Entreri said to the guards. He heard movement farther along and across the alley, as two of the other three sentries, including the one on the same side of the alley as Entreri, came down to see what was going on.

  “Who are you?” one of the soldiers following Sharlotta asked skeptically, his hand going inside his common traveling cloak to the hilt of a finely crafted sword.

  “Go,” Entreri whispered to Sharlotta.

  The woman hesitated, so Entreri prompted her retreat in no uncertain terms. Out came the jeweled dagger and Charon’s Claw, the assassin throwing back his cloak, revealing himself in all his splendor. He leaped forward, slashing with his sword and thrusting with his dagger at the second soldier.

  Out came the swords in response. One picked off the swipe of Charon’s Claw, but with the man inevitably retreating as he parried. That had been Entreri’s primary goal. The second soldier, though, had less fortune. As his sword came forth to parry, Entreri gave a subtle twist of his wrist and looped his dagger over the blade, then thrust it home into the man’s belly.

  With others closing fast, the assassin couldn’t follow through with the kill, but he did hold the strike long enough to bring forth the dagger’s life-stealing energies to let the man know the purest horror he could ever imagine. The soldier wasn’t really badly wounded, but he fell away to the ground, clutching his belly and howling in terror.

  The assassin broke back, turning away from the wall where Sharlotta Vespers was scrambling to gain the roof.

  The one who had fallen back from the sword slash came at Entreri from the left. Another came from the right, and two rushed across the alleyway, coming straight in. Entreri started right, sword leading, then turned back fast to the left. Even as the four began to compensate for the change—a change that was not completely unexpected—the assassin turned back fast to the right, charging in hard just as that soldier had begun to accelerate in pursuit.

  The soldier found himself in a flurry of slashing and stabbing. He worked his own blades, a sword and dirk, quite well. The soldier was no novice to battle, but this was Artemis Entreri. Whenever the man moved to parry, Entreri altered the angle. His fury kept the ring of metal in the air for a long few seconds, but the dagger slipped through, gashing the soldier’s right arm. As that limb drooped, Entreri went into a spin, Charon’s Claw coming around fast to pick off a thrust from the man coming in at his back, then continuing through, over the wounded man’s lowered defense, slashing him hard across the chest.

  Also on that maneuver, Entreri’s devilish sword trailed out the black ash wall. The line was horizontal,
not vertical, so that ash did not impede the vision of his adversaries, but still the mere sight of it hanging there in midair gave them enough pause for Entreri to dispatch the man who had come in on his right. Then the assassin went into a wild flurry, sword waving and bringing up an opaque wall.

  The remaining three soldiers settled back behind it, confused and trying to put some coordination into their movements. When at last they mustered the nerve to charge through the ash wall, they discovered that the assassin was nowhere to be found.

  Entreri watched them from the rooftop, shaking his head at their ineptness, and also at the little values offered by this wondrous sword—a weapon to which he was growing more fond with each battle.

  “Where is it?” Sharlotta called to him from across the way.

  Entreri looked at her quizzically.

  “The doorway?” Sharlotta asked. “Where is it?”

  “Perhaps Da’Daclan has interfered,” Entreri replied, trying to hide his satisfaction that apparently Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were not closely monitoring Sharlotta’s movements. “Or perhaps they decided to leave us,” he added, figuring that if he could throw a bit of doubt into Sharlotta Vespers’ view of the world and her dark elven compatriots, then so be it.

  Sharlotta merely scowled at that disturbing thought.

  Noise from behind told them that the soldiers in the alleyway weren’t giving up and reminded them that they were on hostile territory here. Entreri ran past Sharlotta, motioning for her to follow, then made the leap across the next alleyway to another building, then to a third, then down and out the back end of an alley, and finally, down into the sewers—a place that Entreri wasn’t thrilled about entering at that time, given his recent assassination of Domo. He didn’t remain underground for long, coming up in the more familiar territory beyond Da’Daclan’s territory and closer to the Basadoni guild house.

  Still leading, Entreri made his way along at a swift pace until he reached the alleyway beside the Copper Ante, where he abruptly stopped.