Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords

by R. A. Salvatore

  Cadderly didn’t answer.

  “Dragon,” Ivan said.

  “Ooo,” said Pikel.

  Cadderly didn’t answer.

  “Red dragon,” Ivan clarified.

  “Ooo,” said Pikel.

  Cadderly didn’t answer.

  “Big red dragon,” said the dwarf. “Huge red dragon! Old as the mountains.”

  “Ooo,” said Pikel, three more times.

  Cadderly merely sighed.

  “Old Fyren’s dead,” Ivan said, and there was indeed a slight tremor in the tough dwarf’s voice, for that fight with the great red dragon had nearly been the end of them all.

  “Fyrentennimar was not the last of its kind, nor the greatest, I assure you,” Cadderly replied evenly.

  “Ye’re thinking that we got to take the thing to another of the beasts?” Ivan asked incredulously. “To one bigger than old Fyren?”

  “So I am told,” explained Cadderly. “A red dragon, ancient and huge.”

  Ivan shook his head, and snapped a glare over Pikel, who said, “Ooo,” once again.

  Ivan couldn’t help but chuckle. They had met up with mighty Fyrentennimar on their way to find the mountain fortress that housed the minions of Cadderly’s own wicked father. Through Cadderly’s powerful magic, the dragon had been “tamed” into flying Cadderly and the others across the Snowflake Mountains. A battle deeper in those mountains had broken the spell though, and old Fyren had turned on its temporary masters with a vengeance. Somehow, Cadderly had managed to hold onto enough magical strength to weaken the beast enough for Vander, a giant friend, to lop off its head, but Ivan knew, and so did the others, that the win had been as much a feat of luck as of skill.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden telled ye about another of the reds, didn’t he?” Ivan remarked.

  “I know where we can find one,” Cadderly replied grimly.

  Danica walked in, then, her smile wide—until she noted the expressions on the faces of the other three.

  “Poof!” said Pikel and he walked out of the room, muttering squeaky little sounds.

  A puzzled Danica watched him go. Then she turned to his brother.

  “He’s a doo-dad,” Ivan explained, “and fearin’ no natural creature.

  There ain’t nothin’ less natural than a red dragon, I’m guessing, so he’s not too happy right now.” Ivan snorted and walked out behind his brother.

  “Red dragon?” Danica asked Cadderly.

  “Poof,” the priest replied.

  CHAPTER

  BECAUSE HE NEVER HAD TO

  19

  Entreri frowned when he glanced from the not-too-distant village to his ridiculously plumed drow companion. The hat alone, with its wide brim and huge diatryma feather that always grew back after Jarlaxle used it to summon a real giant bird, would invite suspicion and likely open disdain, from the farmers of the village. Then there was the fact that the wearer was a dark elf….

  “You really should consider a disguise,” Entreri said dryly, and shook his head, wishing he still had a particular magic item, a mask that could transform the wearer’s appearance. Drizzt Do’Urden had once used the thing to get from the northlands around Waterdeep all the way to Calimport disguised as a surface elf.

  “I have considered a disguise,” the drow replied, and to Entreri’s—temporary—relief, he pulled the hat from his head. A good start, it seemed.

  Jarlaxle merely brushed the thing off and plopped it right back in place. “You wear one, as well,” the drow protested to Entreri’s scowl, pointing to the small-brimmed black hat Entreri now wore. The hat was called a bolero, named after the drow wizard who had given it its tidy shape and had imbued it, and several others of the same make, with certain magical properties.

  “Not the hat!” the frustrated Entreri replied, and he rubbed a hand across his face. “These are simple farmers, likely with very definite feelings about dark elves—and likely, those feelings are not favorable.”

  “For most dark elves, I would agree with them,” said Jarlaxle, and he ended there, and merely kept riding on his way toward the village, as if Entreri had said nothing to him at all.

  “Hence, the disguise,” the assassin called after him.

  “Indeed,” said Jarlaxle, and he kept on riding.

  Entreri kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks, spurring the mount into a quick canter to bring him up beside the elusive drow. “I mean that you should consider wearing one,” Entreri said plainly.

  “But I am,” the drow replied. “And you, Artemis Entreri, above all others, should recognize me! I am Drizzt Do’Urden, your most hated rival.”

  “What?” the assassin asked incredulously.

  “Drizzt Do’Urden, the perfect disguise for me,” Jarlaxle casually replied. “Does not Drizzt walk openly from town to town, neither hiding nor denying his heritage, even in those places where he is not well-known?”

  “Does he?” Entreri asked slyly.

  “Did he not?” Jarlaxle quickly replied, correcting the tense, for of course, as far as Artemis Entreri knew, Drizzt Do’Urden was dead.

  Entreri stared hard at the drow.

  “Well, did he not?” Jarlaxle asked plainly. “And it was Drizzt’s nerve, I say, in parading about so openly, that prevented townsfolk from organizing against him and slaying him. Because he remained so obvious, it became obvious that he had nothing to hide. Thus, I use the same technique and even the same name. I am Drizzt Do’Urden, hero of Icewind Dale, friend of King Bruenor Battlehammer of Mithral Hall, and no enemy of these simple farmers. Rather, I might be of use to them, should danger threaten.”

  “Of course,” Entreri replied. “Unless one of them crosses you, in which case you will destroy the entire town.”

  “There is always that,” Jarlaxle admitted, but he didn’t slow his mount, and he and Entreri were getting close to the village now, close enough to be seen for what they were—or at least, for what they were pretending to be.

  There were no guards about, and the pair rode in undisturbed, their horses’ hooves clattering on cobblestone roads. They pulled up before one two-story building, on which hung a shingle painted with a foamy mug of mead and naming the place as in lettering old and weathered.

  Gent eman Briar’s Good y P ace of Si ing

  “Si ing,” Jarlaxle read, scratching his head, and he gave a great and dramatic sigh. “This is a gathering hall for those of melancholy?”

  “Not sighing,” Entreri replied. He looked at Jarlaxle, snorted, and rolled off the side of his horse. “Sitting, or perhaps sipping. Not sighing.”

  “Sitting, then, or sipping,” Jarlaxle announced, looping his right leg over his horse, and rolling over backward off the mount into a somersault to land gracefully on his feet. “Or perhaps a bit of both! Ha!” He ended with a great gleaming smile.

  Entreri stared at him hard yet again, and just shook his head, thinking that perhaps he would have been better off leaving this one with Rai-guy and Kimmuriel.

  A dozen patrons were inside the place, ten men and a pair of women, along with a grizzled old barkeep whose snarl seemed to be eternally etched upon his stubbly face, a locked expression amidst the leathery wrinkles and acne scars. One by one, the thirteen took note of the pair entering, and inevitably, each nodded or merely glanced away, and shot a stunned expression back at the duo, particularly at the dark elf, and sent a hand to the hilt of the nearest weapon. One man even leaped up from his chair, sending it skidding out behind him.

  Entreri and Jarlaxle merely tipped their hats and moved to the bar, making no threatening movements and keeping their expressions perfectly friendly.

  “What’re ye about?” the barkeep barked at them. “Who’re ye, and what’s yer business?”

  “Travelers,” Entreri answered, “weary of the road and seeking a bit of respite.”

  “Well, ye’ll not be finding it here, ye won’t!” the barkeep growled. “Get yer hats back on yer ugly heads and get yer arses out me door!”

  E
ntreri looked to Jarlaxle, who seemed perfectly unperturbed. “I do believe we will stay a bit,” the drow stated. “I do understand your hesitance, good sir … good Eman Briar,” he added, remembering the sign.

  “Eman?” the barkeep echoed in obvious confusion.

  “Eman Briar, so says your placard,” Jarlaxle answered innocently.

  “Eh?” the puzzled man asked, then his old yellow eyes lit up as he caught on. “Gentleman Briar,” he insisted. “The L’s all rotted away. Gentleman Briar.”

  “Your pardon, good sir,” the charming and disarming Jarlaxle said with a bow. He gave a great sigh and threw a wink at Entreri’s predictable scowl. “We have come in to sigh, sit, and sip, a bit of all three. We want no trouble and bring none, I assure you. Have you not heard of me? Drizzt Do’Urden of Icewind Dale, who reclaimed Mithral Hall for dwarven King Bruenor Battlehammer?”

  “Never heard o’ no Drizzit Dudden,” Briar replied. “Now get ye outta me place afore me friends and me haul ye out!” His voice rose as he spoke, and several of the gathered men did, as well, moving together and readying their weapons.

  Jarlaxle glanced around at the lot of them, smiling, seeming perfectly amused. Entreri, too, was quite entertained by it all, but he didn’t bother looking around, just leaned back on his barstool, watching his friend and trying to see how Jarlaxle might wriggle out of this one. Of course, the ragged band of farmers hardly bothered the skilled assassin, especially since he was sitting next to the dangerous Jarlaxle. If they had to leave the town in ruin, so be it.

  Thus, Entreri did not even search the ever-present silent call of the imprisoned Crystal Shard. If the artifact wanted these simple fools to take it from Entreri, then let them try!

  “Did I not just tell you that I reclaimed a dwarven kingdom?” Jarlaxle asked. “And mostly without help. Hear me well, Gent Eman Briar. If you and your friends here try to expel me, your kin will be planting more than crops this season.”

  It wasn’t so much what he said as it was the manner in which he said it, so casual, so confident, so perfectly assured that this group could not begin to frighten him. The men approaching slowed to a halt, all of them glancing to the others for some sign of leadership.

  “Truly, I desire no trouble,” Jarlaxle said calmly. “I have dedicated my life to erasing the prejudices—rightful conceptions, in many instances—that so many hold for my people. I am not merely a weary traveler, but a warrior for the causes of common men. If goblins attacked your fair town, I would fight beside you until they were driven away, or until my heart beat its last!” His voice continued a dramatic climb. “If a great dragon swooped down upon your village, I would brave its fiery breath, draw forth my weapons and leap to the parapets….”

  “I think they understand your point,” Entreri said to him, grabbing him by the arm and easing him back to his seat.

  Gentleman Briar snorted. “Ye’re not even carryin’ no weapon, drow,” he observed.

  “A thousand dead men have said the same thing,” Entreri replied in all seriousness. Jarlaxle tipped his hat to the assassin. “But enough banter,” Entreri added, hopping from his seat and pulling back his cloak to reveal his two fabulous weapons, the jeweled dagger and the magnificent Charon’s Claw with its distinctive bony hilt. “If you mean to fight us, then do so now, that I can finish this business and still find a good meal, a better drink, and a warm bed before the fall of night. If not, then go back to your tables, I beg, and leave us in peace, else I’ll forget my delusional paladin friend’s desire to become the hero of the land.”

  Again, the patrons glanced nervously at each other, and some grumbled under their breaths.

  “Gentleman Briar, they await your signal,” Entreri remarked. “Choose well which signal that will be, or else find a way to mix blood with your drink, for you shall have gallons of it pooling about your tavern.”

  Briar waved his hand, sending his patrons retreating to their respective tables, and gave a great snort and snarl.

  “Good!” Jarlaxle remarked, slapping his leg. “My reputation is saved from the rash actions of my impetuous friend. Now, if you would be so kind as to fetch me a fine and delicate drink, Gentleman Briar,” he instructed, pulling forth his purse, which was bulging with coins.

  “I’m servin’ no damned drow in me tavern,” Briar insisted, crossing his thin but muscled arms over his chest.

  “Then I will gladly serve myself,” Jarlaxle answered without hesitation, and he politely tipped his great plumed hat. “Of course, that will mean fewer coins for you.”

  Briar stared at him hard.

  Jarlaxle ignored him and stared instead at the fairly wide selection of bottles on the shelves behind the bar. He tapped a delicate finger against his lip, scrutinizing the colors, and the words of the few that were actually marked.

  “Suggestions?” he asked Entreri.

  “Something to drink,” the assassin replied.

  Jarlaxle pointed to one bottle, uttered a simple magical command, and snapped his finger back, and the bottle flew from the shelf to his waiting grasp. Two more points and commands had a pair of glasses sitting upon the bar before the companions.

  Jarlaxle reached for the bottle. The stunned and angry Briar snapped his hand out to grab the dark elf’s arm.

  He never got close.

  Faster than Briar could possibly react, faster than he could think to react, Entreri snapped his hand on the barkeep’s reaching arm, slamming it down to the bar and holding it fast. In the same fluid motion, the assassin’s other hand came, holding the jeweled dagger, and Entreri plunged it hard into the wooden shelf right between Gentleman Briar’s fingers. The blood drained from the man’s ruddy face.

  “If you persist, there will be little left of your tavern,” Entreri promised in the coldest, most threatening voice Gentleman Briar had ever heard. “Enough to build a proper box to bury you in, perhaps.”

  “Doubtful,” said Jarlaxle.

  The drow was perfectly at ease, hardly paying attention, seeming as though he had expected Entreri’s intervention all along. He poured the two drinks and eased himself back, sniffing, and sipping his liquor.

  Entreri let the man go, glanced around to make sure that none of the others were moving, and slid his dagger back into its sheath on his belt.

  “Good sir,” Jarlaxle said. “I tell you one more time that we have no argument with you, nor do we wish one. Our road behind us has been long and dry, and the road before us will no doubt prove equally harsh. Thus we have entered your fair tavern in this fair village. Why would you think to deny us?”

  “The better question is, why would you wish to be killed?” Entreri put in.

  Gentleman Briar looked from one to the other and threw up his hands in defeat. “To the Nine Hells with both of ye,” he growled, spinning away.

  Entreri looked to Jarlaxle, who merely shrugged and said, “I have already been there. Hardly worth a return visit.” He took up his glass and the bottle and walked away. Entreri, with his own glass, followed him across the room to the one free table in the small place.

  Of course, the two tables near that one soon became empty as well, when the patrons took up their glasses and other items and scurried away from the dark elf.

  “It will always be like this,” Entreri said to his companion a short while later.

  “It had not been so for Drizzt Do’Urden of late, so my spies indicated,” the drow answered. “His reputation, in those lands where he was known, outshone the color of his skin in the eyes of even the small-minded men. So, soon, will my own.”

  “A reputation for heroic deeds?” Entreri asked with a doubting laugh. “Are you to become a hero for the land, then?”

  “That, or a reputation for leaving burned-out villages behind me,” Jarlaxle replied. “Either way, I care little.”

  That brought a smile to Entreri’s face, and he dared to hope then that he and his companion would get along famously.

  Kimmuriel and Rai-guy stared at the mirror e
nchanted for divining, watching the procession of nearly a score of ratmen, all in their human guise, trotting into the village.

  “It is already tense,” Kimmuriel observed. “If Gord Abrix plays correctly, the townsfolk will join with him against Entreri and Jarlaxle. Thirty-to-two. Fine odds.”

  Rai-guy gave a derisive snort. “Strong enough odds, perhaps, so that Jarlaxle and Entreri will be a bit weary before we go in to finish the task,” he said.

  Kimmuriel looked to his friend but, thinking about it, merely shrugged and grinned. He wasn’t about to mourn the loss of Gord Abrix and a bunch of flea-infested wererats.

  “If they do get in and get lucky,” Kimmuriel remarked, “we must be quick. The Crystal Shard is in there.”

  “Crenshinibon is not calling to Gord Abrix and his fools,” Rai-guy replied, his dark eyes gleaming with anticipation. “It is calling to me, even now. It knows we are close and knows how much greater it will be when I am the wielder.”

  Kimmuriel said nothing, but studied his friend intently, suspecting that if Rai-guy achieved his goal, he and Crenshinibon would likely soon be at odds with Kimmuriel.

  “How many does the tiny village hold?” Jarlaxle asked when the tavern doors opened and a group of men walked in.

  Entreri started to answer flippantly, but held the thought and scrutinized the new group a bit more closely. “Not that many,” he answered, shaking his head.

  Jarlaxle followed the assassin’s lead, studying the movements of the new arrivals, studying their weapons—swords mostly, and more ornate than anything the villagers were carrying.

  Entreri’s head snapped to the side as he noted other forms moving about the two small windows. He knew then, beyond any doubt.

  These are not villagers, Jarlaxle silently agreed, using the intricate sign language of the dark elves, but moving his fingers much more slowly than normal in deference to Entreri’s rudimentary understanding of the form.

  “Ratmen,” the assassin whispered in reply.

  “You hear the shard calling to them?”

  “I smell them,” Entreri corrected. He paused a moment to consider whether the Crystal Shard might indeed be calling out to the group, a beacon for his enemies, but he just dismissed the thought, for it hardly mattered.