R.A. Salvatore - The Ghost King: Transitions, Book III

I will find you, drow.

The dark elfs eyes popped open wide, and he quickly attuned his keen senses to his physical surroundings. The voice remained clear in his mind, invading his moment of quiet Reverie.

He knew the voice, for with it came an image of catastrophe all too clear in his memories, from perhaps a decade and a half before.

He adjusted his eye patch and ran a hand over his bald head, trying to make sense of it. It couldnt be. The dragon had been destroyed, and nothing, not even a great red wyrm like Hephaestus, could have survived the intensity of the blast when Crenshinibon had released its power. Or even if the beast had somehow lived, why hadnt it arisen then and there, where its enemies would have been helpless before it?

No, Jarlaxle was certain that Hephaestus had been destroyed. But he hadnt dreamed the intrusion into his Reverie. Of that, too, Jarlaxle was certain.

I will find you, drow.

It had been Hephaestusthe telepathic impartation into Jarlaxles Reverie had brought the image of the great dragon to him clearly. He could not have mistaken the weight of that voice. It had startled him from his meditation, and he had instinctively retreated from it and forced himself back into the present, to his physical surroundings.

He regretted that almost immediately, and calmed long enough to hear the contented snoring of his dwarf companion, to ensure that all around him was secure, then he closed his eyes once more and turned his thoughts inward, to a place of meditation and solitude.

Except, he was not alone.

Hephaestus was there waiting for him. He envisioned the dragons eyes, twin flickers of angry flame. He could feel the beasts rage, simmering and promising revenge. A contented growl rumbled through Jarlaxles thoughts, the smirk of the predator when the prey was at hand. The dragon had found him telepathically, but did that mean it knew where he was physically?

A moment of panic swept through Jarlaxle, a moment of confusion. He reached up and touched his eye patch, wearing it that day over his left eye. Its magic should have stopped Hephaestuss intrusion, should have shielded Jarlaxle from all scrying or unwanted telepathic contact. But he was not imagining it. Hephaestus was with him.

I will find you, drow, the dragon assured him once more.

Will find him, so therefore had not yet found him

Jarlaxle threw up his defenses, refusing to consider his current whereabouts in the recognition of why Hephaestus kept repeating his declaration. The dragon wanted him to consider his position so the beast could telepathically take the knowledge of his whereabouts from him.

He filled his thoughts with images of the city of Luskan, of Calimport, of the Underdark. Jarlaxles principal lieutenant in his powerful mercenary band was an accomplished psionicist, and had taught Jarlaxle much in the ways of mental trickery and defense. Jarlaxle brought every bit of that knowledge to bear.

Hephaestuss psionically-imparted growl, turning from satisfaction to frustration, was met by Jarlaxles chuckle. You cannot elude me, the dragon insisted. Arent you dead? I will find you, drow! Then I will kill you again.

Jarlaxles matter-of-fact, casual response elicited a great rage from the beastas the drow had hopedand with that emotion came a momentary loss of control by the dragon, which was all Jarlaxle needed.

He met that rage with a wall of denial, forcing Hephaestus from his thoughts. He shifted the eye patch to his right eye, his touch awakening the item, bringing forth its shielding power more acutely.

That was the way with many of his magical trinkets of late. Something was happening to the wider world, to Mystras Weave. Kimmuriel had warned him to beware the use of magic, for reports of disastrous results from even simple castings had become all too commonplace.

The eye patch did its job, though, and combined with Jarlaxles clever tricks and practiced defenses, Hephaestus was thrown far from the drows subconscious.

Eyes open once more, Jarlaxle surveyed his small encampment. He and Athrogate were north of Mirabar. The sun had not yet appeared, but the eastern sky was beginning to leak its pre-dawn glow. The two of them were scheduled to meet, clandestinely, with Marchion Elastul of Mirabar that very morning, to complete a trading agreement between the self-serving ruler and the coastal city of Luskan. Or more specifically, between Elastul and Bregan Daerthe, Jarlaxles mercenaryand increasingly mercantileband. Bregan Daerthe used the city of Luskan as a conduit to the World Above, trading goods from the Underdark for artifacts from the surface realms, ferrying valuable and exotic baubles to and from the drow city-state of Menzoberranzan.

The drow scanned their camp, set in a small hollow amid a trio of large oaks. He could see the road, quiet and empty. From one of the trees a cicada crescendoed its whining song, and a bird cawed as if in answer. A rabbit darted through the small grassy lea on the downside of the camp, fleeing with sharp turns and great leaps as if terrified by the weight of Jarlaxles gaze.

The drow slipped down from the low crook in the tree, rolling off the heavy limb that had served as his bed. He landed silently on magical boots and wove a careful path out of the copse to get a wider view of the area.

And wherere ye goin, Im wantin to be knowin? the dwarf called after him.

Jarlaxle turned on Athrogate, who still lay on his back, wrapped in a tangled bedroll. One half-opened eye looked back at him.

I often ponder which is more annoying, dwarf, your snoring or your rhyming.

Meself, too, said Athrogate. But since Im not much hearing me snoring, Ill be choosing the word-song.

Jarlaxle just shook his head and turned to walk away. Im still asking, elf.

I thought it wise to search the grounds before our esteemed visitor arrives, Jarlaxle replied.

Hell be getting here with half the dwarfs o Mirabars Shield, not for doubting, said Athrogate.

True enough, Jarlaxle knew. He heard Athrogate shuffle out of his bedroll and scramble to his feet.

Prudence, my friend, the drow said over his shoulder, and started away.

Nah, its moren that, Athrogate declared.

Jarlaxle laughed helplessly. Few in the world knew him well enough to so easily read through his tactical deflections and assertions, but in the years Athrogate had been at his side, he had indeed let the dwarf get to know something of the true Jarlaxle Baenre. He turned and offered a grin to his dirty, bearded friend.

Well? Athrogate asked. Yer words Im taking, but whats got ye shaking?

Shaking?

Athrogate shrugged. It be what it be, and I see what it be.

Enough, Jarlaxle bade him, holding his hands out in surrender.

Ye tell me or Ill rhyme at ye again, the dwarf warned.

Hit me with your mighty morningstars instead, I beg you.

Athrogate planted his hands on his hips and stared at the dark elf hard.

I do not yet know, Jarlaxle admitted. Something He reached around and retrieved his enormous, wide-brimmed hat, patted it into shape, and plopped it atop his head.

Something?

Aye, said the drow. A visitor, perhaps in my dreams, perhaps not.

Tell me shes a redhead.

Red scales, more likely.

Athrogates face crinkled in disgust. Ye need to dream better, elf.

Indeed.

* * * * *

My daughter fares well, I trust, Marchion Elastul remarked. He sat in a great, comfortable chair at the heavy, ornately decorated table his attendants had brought from his palace in Mirabar, surrounded by a dozen grim-faced dwarves of Mirabars Shield. Across from him, in lesser thrones, sat Jarlaxle and Athrogate, who stuffed his face with bread, eggs, and all manner of delicacies. Even for a meeting in the wilderness, Elastul had demanded some manner of civilized discourse, which, to the dwarfs ultimate joy, had included a fine breakfast.