Servant of the Shard: The Sellswords

by R. A. Salvatore

  Rai-guy’s eyes narrowed at the affront to his spellcasting, but in truth, he couldn’t really disagree with the assessment. He had been hoping he could catch his prey easily and tidily, but he knew better in his heart, knew that Jarlaxle would prove a difficult and cagey quarry.

  “Search quickly,” Kimmuriel ordered.

  Berg’inyon and Gord Abrix ran off, poking through the smoldering ruins.

  “They are not in there,” Rai-guy said to his psionicist friend a moment later.

  “You agree with Berg’inyon’s reasoning?” Kimmuriel asked.

  “I hear the call of the Crystal Shard,” Rai-guy explained with a snarl, for he did indeed hear the renewed call of the artifact, the prisoner of stubborn Artemis Entreri. “That call comes not from the tavern.”

  “Then where?” Kimmuriel asked.

  Rai-guy could only shake his head in frustration. Where indeed. He heard the pleas, but there was no location attached to them, just an insistent call.

  “Bring our henchmen back to us,” the wizard instructed, and Kimmuriel went through the doorway, returning a moment later with Berg’inyon, Gord Abrix, and a pair of horribly burned, but still very much alive, wererats.

  “Help them,” Gord Abrix pleaded, dragging his torched friends to Rai-guy. “This is Poweeno, a close advisor and friend.”

  Rai-guy closed his eyes and began to chant, and opened his eyes and held his hand out toward the prone and squirming Poweeno. He finished his spell by waggling his fingers and uttering another line of arcane words, and a sharp spark crackled from his fingertips, jolting the unfortunate wererat. The creature cried out and jerked spasmodically, howling in agony as smoking blood and gore began to ooze from its layers of horrible wounds.

  A few moments later, Poweeno lay very still, quite dead.

  “What … what have you done?” Gord Abrix demanded of Rai-guy, the wizard already into spellcasting once more.

  When Rai-guy didn’t answer, Gord Abrix made a move toward him, or at least tried to. He found his feet stuck to the floor, as if he was standing in some powerful glue. He glanced about, his gaze settling on Kimmuriel. He recognized from the drow’s satisfied expression that it was indeed the psionicist holding him fast in place.

  “You failed me,” Rai-guy explained opening his eyes and holding one hand out toward the other wounded wererat.

  “You just said we performed admirably,” Gord Abrix protested.

  “That was before I knew that Jarlaxle and Artemis Entreri had escaped,” Rai-guy explained.

  He finished his spell, releasing a tremendous bolt of lightning into the other wounded wererat. The creature flipped over weirdly, then rolling into a fetal position, fast following its companion to the grave.

  Gord Abrix howled and drew forth his sword, but Berg’inyon was there, smashing the blade away with his own, fine drow weapon. The warrior looked to his two drow companions. On a nod from Rai-guy, he slashed Gord Abrix across the throat.

  The wererat, his feet still stuck fast, sank to the floor, staring helplessly and pleadingly at Rai-guy.

  “I do not accept failure,” the drow wizard said coldly.

  “King Elbereth has sent the word out wide to our scouts,” the elf Shayleigh assured Ivan and Pikel when the two dwarven emissaries arrived in Shilmista Forest to the west of the Snowflake Mountains. Cadderly had sent the dwarves straight out to their elf friends, confident that anyone approaching would surely be noticed by King Elbereth’s wide network of scouts.

  Pikel gave a sound then, which seemed to Ivan to be more one of trepidation than one of hope, though Shayleigh had just given them the assurances they had come here to get.

  Or had she?

  Ivan Bouldershoulder studied the elf maiden carefully. With her violet eyes and thick golden hair hanging far below her shoulders, she was undeniably beautiful, even to the thinking of a dwarf whose tastes usually ran to shorter, thicker, and more heavily bearded females. There was something else about Shayleigh’s posture and attitude, though, about the subtle undertone of her melodious voice.

  “Ye’re not to kill ’em, ye know,” Ivan remarked bluntly.

  Shayleigh’s posture did not change very much. “You yourself have named them as ultimately dangerous,” she replied, “an assassin and a drow.”

  Ivan noted that the ominous flavor of her voice increased when she named the dark elf, as if the creature’s mere race offended her more than the profession of his traveling companion.

  “Cadderly’s needin’ to talk to ’em,” Ivan grumbled.

  “Can he not speak to the dead?”

  “Ooo,” said Pikel and he hopped away suddenly, disappearing briefly into the underbrush, and reemerging with one hand behind his back. He hopped up to stand before Shayleigh, a disarming grin on his face. “Drizzit,” he reminded, and he pulled his hand around, revealing a delicate flower he had just picked for her.

  Shayleigh could hardly hold her stern demeanor against that emotional assault. She smiled and took the wildflower, bringing it to her nose that she could smell its beautiful fragrance. “There is often a flower among the weeds,” she said, catching on to Pikel’s meaning. “As there may be a druid among a clan of dwarves. That does not mean there are others.”

  “Hope,” said Pikel.

  Shayleigh gave a helpless chuckle.

  “Ye get yer heart in the right place,” Ivan warned, “so says Cadderly, else the Crystal Shard’ll find yer heart and twist it to its own needs. It’s a big bit o’ hope he’s puttin’ on ye, elf.”

  Shayleigh’s sincere smile was all the assurance he needed.

  “Brother Chaunticleer has outlined a grand scheme for keeping the children busy,” Danica said to Cadderly. “I will be ready to leave as soon as the artifact arrives.”

  Cadderly’s expression hardly seemed to support that notion.

  “You did not think I would let you go visit an ancient dragon without me beside you, did you?” Danica asked, sincerely wounded.

  Cadderly blew a sigh.

  “We’ve met one before and would have had no trouble at all with it if we had not brought it along with us across the mountains,” the woman reminded.

  “This time may be more difficult,” Cadderly explained. “I will be expending energy merely in controlling the Crystal Shard at the same time I am dealing with the beast. Worse, the artifact will also be speaking to the dragon, I am sure. What better wielder for an instrument of chaos and destruction than a mighty red dragon?”

  “How strong is your magic?” Danica asked.

  “Not that strong, I fear,” Cadderly replied.

  “All the more reason that I, and Ivan and Pikel, must be with you,” Danica remarked.

  “Without the aid of Deneir, do you give any of us a chance of battling such a wyrm?” the priest asked sincerely.

  “If Deneir is not with you, you will need us to drag you out of there and quickly,” the woman said with a wide smile. “Is that not what your friends are supposed to do?”

  Cadderly started to respond, but he really couldn’t say much against the look of determination, and of something even more than that—of serenity—stamped across Danica’s fair face. Of course she meant to go with him, and he knew he couldn’t possibly prevent that unless he left magically and with great deception. Of course, Ivan and Pikel would travel with him as well, though he had to wince when he considered the would-be druid, Pikel, facing a red dragon. They did not want to disturb the great beast any more than to borrow its fiery breath for a single burst of fire. Pikel, so dedicated to the natural, might not be so willing to walk away from a dragon, which was perhaps the greatest perversion of nature in all the world.

  Danica cupped her hand under Cadderly’s chin then and tilted his head back up so that he was eyeing her directly as she moved very close to him.

  “We will finish this and to our satisfaction,” she said, and she kissed him gently on the lips. “We have battled worse, my love.”

  Cadderly didn’t begin to
deny her words, or her presence, or her determination to go along on this important and dangerous journey. He brought her closer and kissed her again and again.

  “We are too busy elsewhere,” Sharlotta Vespers tried to explain to Kimmuriel and Rai-guy. The pair were not pleased to learn that Dallabad had somehow been infiltrated by spies of great warlords from Memnon.

  The dark elves exchanged concerned looks. Sharlotta had insisted repeatedly that every spy had been caught and killed, but what if she were wrong? What if even one spy had escaped to tell the warlords in Memnon the truth about the change at Dallabad? Or what if other spies had now discerned the real power behind the overthrow of House Basadoni?

  “Every danger that Jarlaxle has sown may soon come to harvest,” Kimmuriel said to his companion in the drow tongue.

  While Sharlotta understood the words well enough, she surely didn’t catch the subtleties of the common drow saying, one that referred to revenge taken on a drow house for crimes against another house. Kimmuriel’s words were a stern warning, a reminder that Jarlaxle’s involvement with Crenshinibon may have left them all vulnerable, no matter what remedial steps they now took.

  Rai-guy nodded and stroked his chin, whispering something under his breath that the others could not catch. He stepped forward suddenly to stand right before Sharlotta, bringing his hands up in front of him, thumb-to-thumb. He uttered another word, and a gout of flame burst forth, engulfing the surprised woman’s head. She slapped at the fire and screamed, running around the room, and dived to the floor, rolling.

  “Make sure that all others who know too much are similarly uninformed,” Rai-guy said coldly, as Sharlotta finally died on the floor at his feet.

  Kimmuriel nodded, his expression grim, though a hint of an eager grin did turn up the edges of his thin lips.

  “I will open the portal back to Menzoberranzan,” the wizard explained. “I hold no love for this place and know now, as do you, that our potential gains here do not outweigh the risk to Bregan D’aerthe. I do not even consider it a pity that Jarlaxle foolishly overstepped the bounds of rational caution.”

  “Better that he did,” Kimmuriel agreed. “That we can be on our way to the caverns where we truly belong.” He glanced down at Sharlotta, her head blackened and smoking, and smiled once more. He bowed to his companion, his friend of like mind, and left the room, eager to begin the debriefing of others.

  Rai-guy also left the room, though through another door, one that led him to the staircase to the basement of House Basadoni, where he could relax more privately in secure chambers. His words of retreat to Kimmuriel followed his every step.

  Logical words. Words of survival in a place grown too dangerous.

  But still … there remained a call in his head, an insistent intrusion, a plea for help.

  A promise of greatness beyond his comprehension.

  Rai-guy settled into a comfortable chair in his private room, reminding himself continually that a return to Menzoberranzan was the correct move for Bregan D’aerthe, that the risk of remaining on the surface, even in pursuit of the powerful artifact, was too great for the potential gains.

  Soon after, the exhausted drow fell into a sort of reverie, as close to true sleep as a dark elf might know.

  And in that “sleep,” the call of Crenshinibon came again to Rai-guy, a plea for help, for rescue, and a promise of great gain in return.

  That predictable call was soon magnified a hundred times over, with even greater promises of glory and power, with images not of magnificent crystalline towers on the deserts of Calimshan, but of a tower of the purest opal set in the center of Menzoberranzan, a black structure gleaming with inner heat and energy.

  Rai-guy’s reminders of prudence could not hold against that image, against the parade of Matron Mothers, the hated Triel Baenre among them, coming to the tower to pay homage to him.

  The dark elf’s eyes popped open wide. He collected his thoughts and sprang from the chair, moving quickly to locate Kimmuriel, to alter the psionisict’s instructions. Yes, he would open the gate back to Menzoberranzan, and yes, much of Bregan D’aerthe would return to their home.

  But Rai-guy and Kimmuriel were not finished here just yet. They would remain with a strike force until the Crystal Shard had found a proper wielder, a dark elf wizard-cleric who would bring to the artifact its greatest level of power, and who would take from it the same.

  In a dark chamber far under Dallabad Oasis, Yharaskrik silently congratulated himself on altering the promises of the Crystal Shard more greatly to entice Rai-guy. Kimmuriel had informed Yharaskrik of the change in Bregan D’aerthe’s plans, but though Yharaskrik had outwardly accepted that change, the illithid was not willing to let the artifact go running off unchecked just yet. Through great concentration and mind control, Yharaskrik had been able to catch the subtle notes of the artifact’s quiet call, but the illithid had not been able to begin to backtrack that call to the source.

  Yharaskrik needed Bregan D’aerthe a bit longer, though the illithid recognized that once the drow band had fulfilled its purpose in locating the Crystal Shard, he and Rai-guy would likely be on opposite sides of the inevitable battle.

  Let that be as it may, Yharaskrik realized. Kimmuriel Oblodra, a fellow psionicist who understood the deeper truths about Crenshinibon’s shortcomings, would surely stand on his side of the battlefield.

  CHAPTER

  THE MASK OF A GOD

  21

  Why would you live in a desert, when such beauty is so near?” Jarlaxle asked Entreri.

  The pair had moved quickly in the days after the disaster at Gentleman Briar’s tavern, with Entreri even enlisting one wizard they found in an out-of-the-way tower magically to transport them many miles closer to their goal of the Spirit Soaring and the priest, Cadderly.

  It didn’t hurt, of course, that Jarlaxle seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of gold coins.

  Now the Snowflake Mountains were in clear sight, towering before them. Summer was on the wane, and the wind blew chill, but Entreri could hardly argue Jarlaxle’s assessment of the landscape. It surprised the assassin that a drow would find beauty in such a surface environment. They looked down on a canopy of great and ancient trees that filled a long, wide vale nestled right up against the Snowflake’s westernmost slopes. Even Entreri, who seemed to spend most of his time denying beauty, could not deny the majesty of the mountains themselves, tall and jagged, capped with bright snow gleaming brilliantly in the daylight.

  “Calimport is where I make my living,” Entreri answered after a while.

  Jarlaxle snorted at the thought. “With your skills, you could make your home anywhere in the world,” he said. “In Waterdeep or in Luskan, in Icewind Dale or even here. Few would deny the value of a powerful warrior in cities large and villages small. None would evict Artemis Entreri—unless, of course, they knew the man as I know him.”

  That brought a narrow-eyed gaze from the assassin, but it was all in jest, both knew—or perhaps it wasn’t. Even in that case, there was too much truth to Jarlaxle’s statement for Entreri rationally to take offense.

  “We must swing around the mountains to the south to get to Carradoon, and the trails leading us to the Spirit Soaring,” Entreri explained. “A few days should have us standing before Cadderly, if we make all haste.”

  “All haste, then,” said Jarlaxle. “Let us be rid of the artifact, and …” He paused and looked curiously at Entreri.

  Then what?

  That question hung palpably in the air between them, though it had not been spoken. Ever since they had fled the crystalline tower in Dallabad, the pair had run with purpose and direction—to the Spirit Soaring to be rid of the dangerous artifact—but what, indeed, awaited them after that? Was Jarlaxle to return to Calimport to resume his command of Bregan D’aerthe? both wondered. Entreri knew at once as he pondered the possibility that he would not follow his dark elf companion in that case. Even if Jarlaxle could somehow overcome the seeds of change sown b
y Rai-guy and Kimmuriel, Entreri had no desire to be with the drow band again. He had no desire to measure his every step in light of the knowledge that the vast majority of his supposed allies would prefer it if he were dead.

  Where would they go? Together or apart? Both were contemplating that question when a voice, strong yet melodic, resonant with power, drifted across the field to them.

  “Halt and yield!” it said.

  Entreri and Jarlaxle glanced over as one to see a solitary figure, a female elf, beautiful and graceful. She was approaching them openly, a finely crafted sword at her side.

  “Yield?” Jarlaxle muttered. “Must everyone expect us to yield? And halt? Why, we were not even moving!”

  Entreri was hardly listening, was focusing his senses on the trees around them. The elf maiden’s gait told him much, and he confirmed his suspicions almost immediately, spotting one, and another, elf archer among the boughs, bows trained upon him and his companion.

  “She is not alone,” the assassin whispered to Jarlaxle, though he tried to keep the smile on his face as he spoke, an inviting expression for the approaching warrior.

  “Elves rarely are,” Jarlaxle replied quietly. “Particularly when they are confronting drow.”

  Entreri couldn’t hold his smile, facing that simple truth. He expected the arrows to begin raining down upon them at any moment.

  “Greetings!” Jarlaxle called loudly. He swept off his hat, making a point to show his heritage openly.

  Entreri noted that the elf maiden did wince and slow briefly at the revelation, for even from her distance—and she was still thirty strides away—Jarlaxle, without the visually overwhelming hat, was obviously drow.

  She came a bit closer, her expression holding perfectly calm and steady, revealing nothing. It occurred to Entreri then that this was no chance meeting. He took a moment to listen for the silent call of Crenshinibon, to try to determine if the Crystal Shard had brought in more opponents to free it from Entreri’s grasp.