Boundless

by R. A. Salvatore

  “Where is he?” the assassin asked Jarlaxle when he sidled up beside him.

  “The opponent is out back in the alleyway.”

  “With a score of onlookers, and another hundred watching from nearby windows, and hundreds more awaiting the information from those appointed watchers.”

  “It’s been a while since the last fight between such impressive combatants, for I suspect that word has leaked that Zaknafein’s opponent is in fact the weapon master of House Fey-Branche.”

  “There have been whispers,” Arathis Hune quietly confirmed.

  Jarlaxle couldn’t help but smile as he motioned to barkeep Harbondair for a glass of his favorite liquor. He had more than six hundred pieces of gold spread out among the streets, almost none in his own name, and the expected return would be almost nine hundred, he believed, since the odds had surprisingly shifted closer. In truth, Jarlaxle hadn’t even expected to find many takers for his bets on Zaknafein, for who would bet against Zaknafein Do’Urden unless the opponent was Uthegentel Armgo, or perhaps Dantrag Baenre?

  “He’s out in the alleyway, no doubt pacing nervously,” Jarlaxle said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Expending his energy. Making his limbs heavier by the step . . .”

  “You think this a tactic?” Arathis Hune asked. “More likely Matron Malice wouldn’t let her toy soldier come out and play.”

  “She will let him out this night,” Jarlaxle assured him. As he took a sip of his drink, Jarlaxle caught the man staring at him with obvious suspicion.

  Where is your eyepatch? Hune’s fingers signed.

  “On my head,” Jarlaxle replied aloud, drawing a skeptical stare from his associate.

  Jarlaxle turned a bit to better display the back strap of the eyepatch, which was still visible, though the rest of the magical item was not.

  Arathis Hune’s expression turned curious indeed.

  “Our Oblodran friends have come to discern which eye grants me protection from their intrusions, and which allows me the power of true-seeing,” Jarlaxle explained. “Better that they do not see the item, or if they do realize that I am covertly wearing it, better that they do not easily discern which eye it is covering. They are grand with their mind magics, indeed, but not so much, not even their house wizard, with more mundane magic.

  “Like seeing invisible things.”

  A bell chimed at the back of the bar, and Harbondair rushed to a specific point in the wine rack, removing a bottle and putting his ear to the opening for just a moment.

  “Zaknafein Do’Urden approaches,” he informed Jarlaxle and Arathis Hune. Jarlaxle upended his glass in one great swallow, and Arathis Hune slid his empty glass back across the bar, turning to leave with the mercenary leader.

  “How is this possible?” Arathis Hune asked. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “I know formidable wizards—the most formidable—and peerless alchemists,” Jarlaxle replied. “And I have gold. It is amazing what magical or alchemical creations one might inspire with gold.”

  Arathis Hune blew a deep breath. “But why leave the strap visible at all?” he asked, seeming at a loss.

  Jarlaxle shrugged and chuckled. “It wasn’t visible when I first enchanted the item with the vanishing salve, but I dropped it, and it took me a long while to find it!”

  “Vanishing salve?” Arathis Hune echoed, but then just stared blankly at his boss, finally shaking his head helplessly in surrender.

  Just as Jarlaxle wanted it.

  Zaknafein raised his hand to his ear and flipped the band over the top of it, as it had slipped down when he adjusted the item and begun pinching him just a bit. It was nothing serious, of course, just a leather tie, but any crimp, any bustle, any distraction at all at this particular time was indeed a big deal to the weapon master.

  Everything had to be perfect. He had to be perfect.

  There could be no distractions, and this gift from Jarlaxle, even properly adjusted, was distracting him.

  He wanted to reach up, pull it off, and tuck it away.

  But he didn’t. For all of his complaining about the mercenary, Zaknafein had to admit—though only to himself—that even as he had come to quite enjoy the company of Jarlaxle, he had come to trust him more.

  He closed his eyes for a few strides and composed himself, playing out his practice sessions in his thoughts, gathering his muscle memory. He felt as though he might vomit, and to him, that was a good thing.

  He was on edge.

  He was ready for battle.

  Many eyes were upon him, he knew, before he even came around the back corner of the Oozing Myconid. Drow, many nobles among them, lined the alleyway before him, both sides, some high up on the walls of the tavern, some on the roof, peering over. The building across the way had been fashioned from a stalagmite mound, like most drow structures, offering many natural seats along its uneven wall, all of which were filled with onlookers.

  He saw his opponent, Duvon—still in disguise—standing down the way, beyond another drow, a woman he did not know, but one who was commanding great attention. She lifted her right hand up high, pinching her middle finger to her palm with her thumb and showing the gap between her ring and index fingers. She moved it down to within a hand’s width of her face and peered through to the southwest.

  Glancing that way, Zaknafein understood. She was indicating the distant towering obelisk of Narbondel, the magical timeclock of Menzoberranzan, one that measured the days with its glow, climbing to the apex from the floor, midnight to noon, then diminishing back down the great pillar as the day grew long. The indicated distance between her straightened fingers showed how much time, how much of the glow, she would allow to dissipate before calling for an end to the betting.

  And indeed, the coin began to flow all about that alley behind the tavern.

  Zaknafein wondered if he might look unsure, perhaps bluffing so that those betting on him in these waning moments might find better odds.

  He looked down the alleyway to his opponent, though, and found that he couldn’t begin to muster such a facade. There stood Duvon, who had tried to murder him, who had arranged for poison in Zaknafein’s drink, thinking the mushroom drug would slow the weapon master enough for him to make a quick and clean kill.

  Whatever sympathy Zaknafein might feel, whatever kinship he might hold for the other male drow could not push through that truth.

  Zaknafein walked to the near end of the alley, and there waited. Another drow, a woman whose name Zaknafein did not know but who was often seen about the Stenchstreets, came out of an alcove to the side, holding a thin blue wand.

  She held up her hand for silence, and indeed, the onlookers quieted.

  “Coins away!” she declared. “No wager beyond this moment will be enforced by the rules of Braeryn.”

  Zaknafein heard jingling to the sides, and in the windows above, the last bets covered. He had heard of these organized fights, but had never witnessed one. He now understood, though, that this woman standing between him and Duvon held great power in the Stenchstreets, to so calm an always unruly crowd.

  “Who called this fight?” she asked.

  “I did, good lady,” said Jarlaxle, coming out of the shadows to the right side of the alleyway, through the back door of the Oozing Myconid.

  “And these are the principals?” she asked, indicating Zaknafein, then Duvon.

  “They are,” Jarlaxle answered.

  “You are sure?”

  “I am.”

  “And they are known by the names of?”

  “Zaknafein is known in the Braeryn,” Jarlaxle replied. “And of this other fellow . . .” He paused and looked at Duvon, who narrowed his eyes in reply. “We shall call him Blue, as he has not offered any name.”

  Zaknafein heard whispers of “Avinvesa Fey-Branche,” and even “Duvon Tr’arach,” all about. Others even mentioned that Jarlaxle surely knew this fellow.

  Perhaps Jarlaxle was not as clever as he believe
d, Zaknafein mused. If the bettors knew that Jarlaxle was intimately familiar with both fighters, then how would he make his bets?

  Zaknafein didn’t even allow his thoughts to go down that certainly winding road. He hadn’t the time or energy for any of that. Jarlaxle seemed quite pleased at this time, though that, too, offered only conflicting theories and concerns to Zaknafein.

  “Blue?” the woman asked.

  “A name is only important in ensuring the intent of the wager,” Jarlaxle interrupted. “Zaknafein is known. The other is irrelevant.”

  “Will he still be irrelevant when Zaknafein lies dead, I wonder?” another voice intervened, that of Duvon himself.

  That brought a smile to Zaknafein’s face.

  “Coins away!” the woman cried once more. “And approach, warriors, to five strides.”

  Zaknafein’s stare never left Duvon, and was reciprocated every step, as he walked to a distance of about five strides to the woman officiating, Duvon opposite him a similar distance away from the officiant.

  “What weapons you have are your own,” the woman said. “What armor you wear is your own. What tricks you might play are your own, except . . .”

  She paused and looked to Jarlaxle.

  “Warriors, both,” he said.

  “Then no dweomers cast,” she declared, “beyond the enchantments already upon your gear, and your noble abilities. Are we agreed?”

  Zaknafein’s hands rolled about the hilts of his swords, weapons he and Jarlaxle had long ago stolen from the treasury of House Barrison Del’Armgo. Fine weapons, and probably at least as good as those Duvon was now wearing. The combatants were very likely similarly outfitted, he believed.

  “Agreed,” the warriors said, nearly in unison.

  The woman pointed her wand at Zaknafein then and uttered a command word. The weapon master felt a small blast of wind, a wave of disenchantment. Any spells that had been cast on him, of protection or enhancement of strength or speed or agility, would not survive that nullifying enchantment.

  She turned and similarly disenchanted Duvon, then lifted a large and clear crystal orb for all to see.

  “Should any dweomers fall upon these opponents, or within the alleyway, I will know,” she promised.

  Zaknafein just wanted to be done with this and on with the fight, but he supposed that this was about as “fair” a battle as any drow could manage in the City of Spiders.

  Except that he was certain it wasn’t going to be fair, and hoped that his opponent didn’t know that he knew. He had no idea of how Duvon’s allies might get a spell through to him, but Jarlaxle had given him the warning, and the eyepatch, for some reason.

  The weapon master wanted to spit in disgust. He would have preferred a fight in an unremarkable chamber, with equal gear, or no gear, and no onlookers. A fight based on skill alone, his against Duvon’s, and let the better warrior win.

  No matter, he decided, and grasped his swords. That would happen regardless.

  “To surrender or to death,” the woman called as she moved toward her alcove, and the crowd backed away as much as they could. “Have at it!”

  Zaknafein found himself engulfed in magical darkness even as the words left her mouth. A perfectly legal attack by the rules of the fight, since it was an innate noble ability, but having Duvon throw it so immediately did surprise the weapon master.

  Duvon was charging him, he knew, the lesser fighter going for the quick kill. The risks seemed enormous to Zaknafein, his mind spinning through all the possible plays here. Could Duvon correctly guess Zaknafein’s responding move and so approach correctly?

  If Zaknafein went left or right and Duvon guessed opposite, his darkness would be foolishly wasted. If Zaknafein came forward and Duvon was thinking otherwise, his own darkness would work against him, perhaps catastrophically.

  It was a riddle that might have ensnared a less seasoned warrior, or even a veteran who could not process the changes of a battlefield with the clarity or speed of Zaknafein Do’Urden. For Zaknafein immediately understood the risks before Duvon for leading with a summoned globe of darkness, a tactic most commonly used by a drow battling another drow only in desperation, a moment of a missed parry or thrust, in order to bring the battlefield back to even ground. Few were the drow who could not fight well in absolute darkness, after all.

  Duvon would not go left, and he wouldn’t go right, nor would he come straight ahead, for any of those choices might gain him a bit of an advantage if he guessed right, but could lead to utter catastrophe if he guessed wrong.

  No, he had thrown the darkness to throw his entire repertoire of tricks into one sudden killing move.

  Zaknafein couldn’t see him, but Zaknafein knew where he was.

  So Zaknafein readied himself and his swords and then didn’t move.

  Nor did he make a sound.

  He waited, because he understood Duvon’s play, and realized that the House Fey-Branche weapon master was now above him. Duvon had levitated, that second drow noble ability. He couldn’t fly and couldn’t continue any ascent, instead simply going weightless and leaping into the air, floating upward to the end of his enchantment.

  Or until he had caught a ledge on which he could wait.

  He was up there, waiting to see where Zaknafein would appear, that he might leap down from on high.

  Zaknafein waited.

  Zaknafein threw his own globe of darkness just ahead, hoping to overlap the two and further confuse Duvon.

  And Zaknafein waited, perfectly still, listening. He was using no energy here, but his opponent, up high, had to have a precarious perch. It wouldn’t last much longer.

  He heard the slight scraping of a boot on stone up above, and then he leaped, levitating, up and back to the right, swords working overhead and forward in case Duvon came too close.

  Zaknafein exited the top of the darkness globe just as Duvon entered, some few feet before him, just out of reach—of the swords, at least, for both combatants reached into their magical abilities and limned each other with harmless faerie fire, Zaknafein’s purple, Duvon’s blue. Zaknafein hit the lip of the Oozing Myconid’s roof and threw himself back the way he had come, back into the globe, landing with a flurry of blows, most hitting nothing until one, then a second, struck a sword coming at him the other way.

  Watching from the side, Jarlaxle silently applauded Duvon’s courage and cleverness, but he was not surprised at all to see Zaknafein quickly and methodically counter. Now the battle had begun in earnest, deep within the magical darkness, swords ringing together with bangs and scrapes.

  The onlookers gasped and cheered; some complained that they could not witness the swordplay.

  That was a loss, Jarlaxle knew from the sheer speed of the ringing blades. Furiously the two battled, each playing through known routines, adapting and switching in an attempt to catch the other off guard.

  Duvon couldn’t win here, Jarlaxle felt certain. He could not beat Zaknafein in the darkness, or even in the light—but in the light, at least, Duvon likely had another devious trick to play.

  Jarlaxle focused on the sounds, on the continuing direction. Zaknafein was advancing, Duvon retreating.

  Now Jarlaxle understood why Zaknafein had thrown the second globe—the darkness was his ally against Duvon’s as-yet unknown assistance! Zaknafein meant to finish Duvon before the magic darkness faded.

  But now Duvon fully retreated into the second globe, moving through it toward the light. Finally he tumbled out of the far side, to the cheers of those gathered deeper in the alleyway.

  Duvon’s fabulous armor was visible now, Jarlaxle saw, for Zaknafein had cut the man’s outer cloak and shirt apart. And first blood, or at least the most spilled blood, belonged to the blades of Zaknafein, who had snuck more than one cut past Duvon’s defenses in the darkness.

  Jarlaxle nodded in appreciation, though, when Zaknafein emerged, for Duvon had scored a hit, too.

  “You have improved,” Jarlaxle congratulated the former son of
House Tr’arach under his breath. He considered House Fey-Branche and when Matron Byrtyn might be done with Duvon. Perhaps this one might again prove valuable to him. “I hope Zaknafein doesn’t kill you.”

  Zaknafein measured his thrusts and kept his sidelong cuts short, his swords always in position to defend. Something unusual was coming, he knew. Duvon had taken a great chance in utilizing both his darkness and his levitation in that initial attempt to end it.

  But now, with those tricks failing and already put back on his heels, Duvon was not panicking, and his expression showed him to be perturbed, not alarmed.

  He had wanted to defeat Zaknafein on his own, by cleverness and boldness alone.

  But that didn’t mean that he thought he was now in danger of losing.

  And he should think that, Zaknafein knew. Both of Zaknafein’s swords thrust ahead, then retracted so quickly that Duvon missed them in his parry. Back in for Duvon’s torso came those swords, parallel only initially, then each angling out to send them in wide. Thus the left-hand blade picked off the attempted powerful slash of Duvon’s right-hand blade, a sweeping parry that the Fey-Branche weapon master obviously hoped would move both swords harmlessly aside. His second blade was lifting to come in over his parry, and Duvon had to leap back and throw the blade down fast before him simply to avoid Zaknafein’s thrust.

  He still got hit—painfully, if his yelp was any indication—on the left hip.

  Duvon continued back another step and flung himself around to his right, thinking to turn a full circuit to come up balanced ahead and to the side.

  But Zaknafein was too quick for that, and his pursuit forced Duvon to break his circuit halfway around, then simply sprint away for the natural wall of the stalagmite bordering the alley. Up he went with surprising grace and speed, just ahead of Zaknafein’s blades. He leaped and somersaulted, a move that would have normally deposited him back on the ground behind Zaknafein. Not this time, though, as Duvon used his own waving blades to feign that he meant to travel such a distance, but cut short his backward spring, instead coming down at the same spot from which he had leaped, only facing his opponent now.