Promise of the Witch-King

by R. A. Salvatore

  A flash of fire to the side caught his attention. He could only imagine what carnage Jarlaxle was executing.

  Jarlaxle ran to the center of a clearing, goblins closing in all around him, spears flying at him from every direction.

  His magical wards handled the missiles easily enough, and he was quite confident that the crude monsters possessed none of sufficient magical enhancement to get through the barriers and actually strike him. A dozen spears came out at him and were harmlessly deflected aside, but closely following, coming out from behind every rock surrounding the clearing, it seemed, came a goblin, weapon in hand, howling and charging.

  Apparently, the reputation of the dark elves was lost on that particular group of savages.

  As he had counted on their magical deficiencies to render their spears harmless, so did Jarlaxle count on the goblins’ intellectual limitations. They swarmed in at him, and with a shrug Jarlaxle revealed a wand, pointed it at his own feet, and spoke a command word.

  The ensuing fireball engulfed the drow, the goblins, and the whole of the clearing and the rocks surrounding it. Screams of terror accompanied the orange flames.

  Except there were no flames.

  Completely ignoring his own illusion, Jarlaxle watched with more than a little amusement as the goblins flailed and threw themselves to the ground. The creatures thrashed and slapped at flames, and soon their screams of terror became wails of agony. The dark elf noted some of the dozen enemies lying very still, for so consumed had they been by the illusion of the fireball that the magic had created through their own minds the same result actual flames from such a blast might have wrought.

  Jarlaxle had killed nearly half the goblins with a single simple illusion.

  Well, the drow mused, not a simple illusion. He had spent hours and hours, burning out this wand through a hundred recharges, to perfect the swirl of flames.

  He didn’t pat himself on the back for too long, though, for he still had half a dozen creatures to deal with. They were all distracted, however, and so the drow began to pump his arm, calling forth the magic of the bracer he wore on his right wrist to summon perfectly weighted daggers into his hand. They went out in a deadly stream as the drow turned a slow circle.

  He had just completed the turn, putting daggers into all six of the thrashing goblins—and into three of the others, just to make sure—when he heard the howling approach of more creatures.

  Jarlaxle needed no magical items. He reached inside himself, into the essence of his heritage, and called forth a globe of absolute darkness. Then he used his keen hearing to direct him out of the clearing off to the side, where he slipped from stone to stone away from the goblin approach.

  “Will you just stop running?” Entreri asked under his breath as he continued his dogged pursuit of the last wounded goblin.

  The blood trail was easy enough to follow and every so often he spotted the creature zigzagging along the broken trail below him. He had badly stung the creature, he believed, but the goblin showed no sign of slowing. Entreri knew that he should just let the creature bleed out, but frustration drove him on.

  He came upon one sharp bend in the trail but didn’t turn. He sprang atop the rock wall lining the ravine trail and sprinted over it, leaping across another crevice and barreling on straight down the mountainside. He saw the winding trail below him, caught a flash of the running goblin, and veered appropriately, his legs moving on pure instinct to keep him charging forward and in balance along stones and over dark holes that threatened to swallow him up. He tripped more than once, skinning a knee and twisting an ankle, but never was it a catastrophic fall. Hardly slowing with each slight stumble, Entreri growled through the pain and focused on his prey.

  He crossed the snaking path and resisted the good sense to turn and follow its course, again cutting across it to the open, rocky mountainside. He crossed the path again, and a few moments later came up on the fourth bend.

  Certain he was ahead of his foe, he paused and caught his breath, adjusted his clothing, and wiped the blood from his kneecap.

  The terrified, wounded goblin rounded a bend, coming into view. So intent on the trail behind it, the wretch never even saw Entreri as it ran along.

  “You could have made this so much easier,” Entreri said, drawing his weapons and calmly approaching.

  The assassin’s voice hit the goblin’s sensibilities as solidly as a stone wall would have smacked its running form. The creature squealed and skidded to an abrupt stop, whined pitifully, and fell to its knees.

  “Pleases, mister. Pleases,” it begged, using the common tongue.

  “Oh, shut up,” the killer replied.

  “Surely you’ll not kill a creature that so eloquently begs for its life,” came a third voice, one that only surprised Entreri momentarily—until he recognized the speaker.

  He had no idea how Jarlaxle might have gotten down that quickly, but he knew better than to be surprised at anything Jarlaxle did. Entreri sheathed his sword and grabbed the goblin by a patch of its scraggly hair, yanking its head back violently. He let his jeweled dagger slide teasingly across the creature’s throat, then moved it to the side of the goblin’s head.

  “Shall I just take its ears, then?” he asked Jarlaxle, his tone showing that he meant to do no such thing and to show no such mercy.

  “Always you think in terms of the immediate,” the drow replied, and he moved up to the pair. “In those terms, by the way, we should be fast about our business, for a hundred of this one’s companions are even now swarming down the mountainside.”

  Entreri moved as if to strike the killing blow, but Jarlaxle called out and stopped him.

  “Look to the long term,” the drow bade him.

  Entreri cast a cynical look Jarlaxle’s way.

  “We are competing with a hundred trackers for every ear,” the drow explained. “How much better will our progress become with a scout to guide us?”

  “A scout?” Entreri looked down at the sniveling, trembling goblin.

  “Why of course,” said Jarlaxle, and he walked over and calmly moved Entreri’s dagger away from the goblin’s head. Then he took hold of Entreri’s other hand and gently urged it from its grip on the goblin’s hair. He pushed Entreri back a step then bent low before the creature.

  “What do you say to that?” he asked.

  The dumbfounded goblin stared at him.

  “What is your name?”

  “Gools.”

  “Gools? A fine name. What do you say, Gools? Would you care to enter into a partnership with my friend and me?”

  The goblin’s expression did not change.

  “Your job will be quite simple, I assure you,” said the drow. “Show us the way to monsters—you know, your friends and such—then get out of our way. We will meet you each day—” he paused and looked around—“right here. It seems a fine spot for our discussions.”

  The goblin seemed to be catching on, finally. Jarlaxle tossed him a shiny piece of gold.

  “And many more for Gools where that came from. Interested?”

  The goblin stared wide-eyed at the coin for a long while then looked up to Jarlaxle and slowly nodded.

  “Very well then,” said the drow.

  He came forward, reaching into a belt pouch, and brought forth his hand, which was covered in a fine light blue chalky substance. The dark elf reached for the goblin’s forehead.

  Gools lurched back at that, but Jarlaxle issued a stern warning, bringing forth a sword in his other hand and putting on an expression that promised a painful death.

  The drow reached for the goblin’s forehead again and began drawing there with the chalk, all the while uttering some arcane incantation—a babbling that any third-year magic student would have known to be incoherent blather.

  Entreri, who understood the drow language, was also quite certain that it was gibberish.

  When he finished, Jarlaxle cupped poor Gools’s chin and forced the creature to look him right in the eye. He
spoke in the goblin tongue, so there could be no misunderstanding.

  “I have cast a curse upon you,” he said. “If you know anything of my people, the drow, then you understand well that this curse will be the most vicious of all. It is quite simple, Gools. If you stay loyal to me, to us, then nothing will happen to you. But if you betray us, either by running away or by leading us to an ambush, the magic of the curse will take effect. Your brains will turn to water and run out your ear, and it will happen slowly, so slowly! You will feel every burn, every sting, every twist. You will know agony that no sword blade could ever approach. You will whine and cry and plea for mercy, but nothing will help you. And even in death will this curse torment you, for its magic will send your spirit to the altar of the Spider Queen Lolth, the Demon Goddess of Chaos. Do you know of her?”

  Gools trembled so badly he could hardly shake his head.

  “You know spiders?” Jarlaxle asked, and he walked his free hand over the goblin’s sweaty cheek. “Crawly spiders.”

  Gools shuddered.

  “They are the tools of Lolth. They will devour you for eternity. They will bite”—he pinched the goblin sharply—“you a million million times. There will be no release from the burning of their poison.”

  He glanced back at Entreri, then looked the terrified goblin in the eye once more.

  “Do you understand me, Gools?”

  The goblin nodded so quickly that its teeth chattered with the movement.

  “Work with us, and earn gold,” said the drow, still in the guttural language of the savage goblins. He flipped another gold piece at the creature. Gools didn’t even move for it, though, and the coin hit him in the chest and fell to the dirt. “Betray us and know unending torture.”

  Jarlaxle stepped back, and the goblin slumped. Gools did manage to retain enough of his wits to reach down and gather the second gold piece.

  “Tomorrow, at this time,” Jarlaxle instructed. Then, in Common, he began, “Do you think—?”

  He stopped and glanced back up the mountainside at the sudden sound of renewed battle.

  Entreri and Gools, too, looked up the hill, caught by surprise. Horns began to blow, and goblins squealed and howled, and the ring of metal on metal echoed on the wind.

  “Tomorrow!” Jarlaxle said to the goblin, poking a finger his way. “Now be off, you idiot.”

  Gools scrambled away on all fours, finally put his feet under him, and ran off.

  “You really think we’ll see that one ever again?” Entreri asked.

  “I care little,” said the drow.

  “Ears?” reminded Entreri.

  “You may wish to earn your reputation one ear at a time, my friend, but I never choose to do things the hard way.”

  Entreri started to respond, but Jarlaxle held up a hand to silence him. The drow motioned up the mountainside to the left and started off to see what the commotion was all about.

  “Now I know that I have walked into a bad dream,” Entreri remarked.

  He and Jarlaxle leaned flat against a rock wall, overlooking a field of rounded stone. Down below, goblins ran every which way, scrambling in complete disarray, for halflings charged among them—dozens of halflings riding armored war pigs.

  The diminutive warriors swung flails, blew horns, and threw darts, veering their mounts in zigzagging lines that must have seemed perfectly chaotic to the poor, confused goblins.

  From their higher vantage point, however, Entreri and Jarlaxle could see the precision of the halflings’ movements, a flowing procession of destruction so calculated that it seemed as if the mounted little warriors had all blended to form just a few singular, snakelike creatures.

  “In Menzoberranzan, House Baenre sometimes parades its forces about the streets to show off their discipline and power,” Jarlaxle remarked. “These little ones are no less precise in their movements.”

  Entreri had not witnessed such a parade in his short time in the dark elf city, but in watching the weaving slaughter machine of the halfling riders, he easily understood his companion’s point. It was easy, too, for the pair to determine the timeline of the one-sided battle, and so they began making their way down the slope, Jarlaxle leading Entreri onto the stony field as the last of the goblins was cut down.

  “Kneebreakers!” the halflings cried in unison, as they lined their war pigs up in perfect ranks. A few had been injured, but only one seemed at all seriously hurt, and halfling priests were already hard at work attending to him.

  The halflings’ self-congratulatory cheering stopped short, though, when several of them loudly noted the approach of two figures, one a drow elf.

  Weapons raised in the blink of an eye, and shouts of warning told the newcomers to hold their ground.

  “Inurree waflonk,” Jarlaxle said in a language that Entreri did not understand.

  As he considered the curious expressions of the halflings, however, and remembered his old friend back in Calimport, Dwahvel Tiggerwillies, and some of her linguistic idiosyncrasies, he figured out that his friend was speaking the halfling tongue—and, apparently, quite fluently. Entreri was not surprised.

  “Well fought,” Jarlaxle translated, offering a wink to Entreri. “We watched you from on high and saw that the unorganized goblins hadn’t a chance.”

  “You do realize that you’re a dark elf, correct?” asked one of the halflings, a burly little fellow with a brown mustache that curled in circles over his cheeks.

  Jarlaxle feigned a look of surprise as he held one of his hands up before his sparkling red eyes.

  “Why, indeed, ’tis true!” he exclaimed.

  “You do realize that we’re the Kneebreakers, correct?”

  “So I heard you proclaim.”

  “You do realize that we Kneebreakers have a reputation for killing vermin, correct?”

  “If you did not, and after witnessing that display, I would spread the word myself, I assure you.”

  “And you do realize that dark elves fall into that category, of course.”

  “Truly? Why, I had come to believe that the civilized races, which some say include halflings—though others insist that halflings can only be thought of as civilized when there is not food to be found—claim superiority because of their willingness to judge others based on their actions and not their heritage. Is that not one of the primary determining factors of civility?”

  “He’s got a point,” another halfling mumbled.

  “I’ll give him a point,” said yet another, that one holding a long (relatively speaking), nasty-tipped spear.

  “You might also have noticed that many of the goblins were already dead as you arrived on the scene,” Jarlaxle added. “It wasn’t infighting that slew them, I assure you.”

  “You two were battling the fiends?” asked the first, the apparent leader.

  “Battling? Slaughtering would be a better term. I do believe that you and your little army here have stolen our kills.” He did a quick scan and poked his finger repeatedly, as if counting the dead. “Forty or fifty lost gold pieces, at least.”

  The halflings began to murmur among themselves.

  “But it is nothing that my friend and I cannot forgive and forget, for truly watching your fine force in such brilliant maneuvering was worthy of so reasonable an admission price,” Jarlaxle added.

  He swept one of his trademark low bows, removing his hat and brushing the gigantic diatryma feather across the stones.

  That seemed to settle the halfling ranks a bit.

  “Your friend, he does not speak much?” asked the halfling leader.

  “He provides the blades,” Jarlaxle replied.

  “And you the brains, I presume.”

  “I, or the demon prince now standing behind you.”

  The halfling blanched and spun around, along with all the others, weapons turning to bear. Of course, there was no monster to be seen, so the whole troupe spun back on a very amused Jarlaxle.

  “You really must get past your fear of my dark-skinned
heritage,” Jarlaxle explained with a laugh. “How else might we enjoy our meal together?”

  “You want us to feed you?”

  “Quite the contrary,” said the drow. He pulled off his traveling pack and brought forth a wand and a small wineskin. He glanced around, noting a small tumble of boulders, including a few low enough to serve as tables. Motioning that way, he said, “Shall we?”

  The halflings stared at him dubiously and did not move.

  With a great sigh, Jarlaxle reached into his pack again and pulled forth a tablecloth and spread it on the ground before him, taking care to find a bare spot that was not stained by goblin blood. He stepped back, pointed his wand at the cloth, and spoke a command word. Immediately, the center area of the tablecloth bulged up from the ground. Grinning, Jarlaxle moved to the cloth, grabbed its edge, and pulled it back, revealing a veritable feast of sweet breads, fruits, berries, and even a rack of lamb, dripping with juices.

  A row of halfling eyes went so wide they seemed as if they would fall out and bounce along the ground together.

  “Being halflings, and civilized ones at that, I assume you have brought a fair share of eating utensils, plates, and drinking flagons, correct?” said the drow, aptly mimicking the halfling leader’s manner of speaking.

  Some of the halflings edged their war pigs forward, but the stubborn leader held up his hand and eyed the drow with suspicion.

  “Oh, come now,” said Jarlaxle. “Could you envision a better token of my friendship?”

  “You came from the wall?”

  “From the Vaasan Gate, of course,” Jarlaxle answered. “Sent out to scout by Commander Ellery Tranth Dopray Kierney Dragonsbane Peidopare herself.”

  Entreri tried hard not to wince at the mention of the woman’s name, for he thought his friend was playing a dangerous game.

  “I know her well,” said the halfling leader.

  “Do you?” said the drow, and he brightened suddenly as if it all had just fallen in place for him. “Could it be that you are the renowned Hobart Bracegirdle himself?” he gasped.