Elaine Cunningham: The Best of the Realms, Book I

"The sahuagin?" he gurgled from the ruinedstrip of flesh and cartilage that remained of his throat.

Avadriel touched a webbed finger to his lips.

"Hush, Morgan. The beasts will trouble us nomore." She paused before saying, "Twice now, I owe you my life."

He tried to protest, to profess his love before thedarkness that danced at the edge of his vision claimed him forever, but aspasm of pain racked his body. All he could do was let out a single, frustratedgasp.

The sea elf gently stroked his forehead, and, as ifreading his mind, spoke gently into the night.

"Do not worry, my love, I, too, hear the callingof my heart." She looked away, but not before Morgan caught the look ofpain and sadness that creased her face. "Come, the wizard has recoveredthe boat. It's time to go."

As she turned her face back toward him, Morgan stareddeeply into her eyes. He nodded, understanding flooding his awareness.

"May Deep Sashelas bless you until we meetagain," Avadriel whispered before touching her lips to his.

At that contact, Morgan felt his pain flow out of him,leaving only a steady, measured sense of peace. Water enfolded him, circlinghim gently like the protective arms of a lover. They had succeeded, he thoughtdully, as his body slid through the depths. The wizards knew of the sahuagininvasion, and Avadriel was safe. Smiling, Morgan floated down into the darkwaters of oblivion.

And beyond.

R.A. Salvatore

Artemis Entreri looked down the sloping rocks to thedistant fishing village on the shore of some lake he did not know. Small wavesrippled in, gently rocking the many ships and sending their tall masts into ahypnotic sway.

Usually impervious to such fits of introspection,Entreri allowed himself to follow that dance for a bit, to ponder the unlikelycircumstances and unlikelier companion that had delivered him to that spot.

With four decades of life behind him, and nearly threeof those spent surviving alone in the harsh underbellies of Calimport and othercities, it struck Entreri as curious and ironic that, into middle-age, he foundhimself being guided by the machinations of another.

Was it a testament to Jarlaxle's persuasiveness thathe was allowing himself to be tugged along that strange road, or was it,perhaps, some inner need of his own, unrecognized and unexamined?

What was Jarlaxle offering to him? Adventure? Entrerihad known that for most of his life, and most of it had not been of hischoosing, but rather had been foisted upon him by circumstances dangerous andtroubling.

Wealth? To what end?

Never had Entreri desired anything substantial ofmaterial value, unless one counted the possessions of his trade that he eventhen carried, particularly his signature jeweled dagger on his right hip, andthe fabulous sword, Charon's Claw, on his left.

The assassin noted the approach of his dark elf companionJarlaxle, and shook the thoughts from his mind, and he wouldn't lie to himselfsufficiently to deny that he did so with some measure of relief.

For deep within, Artemis Entreri understood what itwas that Jarlaxle was giving to him, and despite his rational objections, theloner survival instinct shouting most prominently among all of his emotions, hewould not reject that one gift: friendship.

Jarlaxle held his wide-brimmed and outrageously-plumedhat in one hand as he casually strode toward Entreri, revealing his angulardrow features and bald head in all their ebon-skinned beauty. His travelingcloak was thrown back over one shoulder in a dignified, almost aristocraticmanner, and it flapped out in the breeze behind him, accentuating his lithe elfform. So thin and agile was he, with no weapon visible, and yet he exuded aconfidence and power, a simple physical presence, beyond that of any manEntreri had ever known.

He was carrying a new item, Entreri realized as thedrow moved closer. At first, the assassin had thought it a simple walkingstick, a broken branch collected along a wooded trail, but as Jarlaxle neared,Entreri began to see the beauty and craftsmanship of the cane. It was made allof silvery metal, the head curved forward and was carved into the likeness ofan alert ferret, head craned in ready posture. The eyes were two black gems-andflawless ones, if Entreri knew Jarlaxle.

What a pair of opposites the duo must seem, Entrerimused, considering his own appearance, with boots often mud-caked and cloakweather-beaten. But as he considered that, the assassin did a cursoryinspection of himself and had to wonder just how much his traveling companionwas beginning to wear off on him.

His black hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail andhe had shed his bulkier and oft-torn leather surcoat for a shirt of fine fabricand quality, that he kept unfastened several inches down from the collar. Morethan a fashion implement, though, the shirt, furnished by Jarlaxle, was sewnwith fine strands of enchanted metal threads that could turn a blade at leastas well as the bulkier leather.

Entreri was looking trim and fit as well, at least asmuch so as he had been over the past decade. Jarlaxle was keeping him on histoes, keeping him constantly on the move and in practice.

And perhaps there was something else contributing tothat fitness, Entreri knew, and he couldn't help but wince a little bit as heconsidered it. In one of their last encounters, Entreri had utilized hisvampiric, life-stealing dagger on an unusual creature, a shade, and in thatstrike, something of the essence of the creature had apparently found its wayinto Entreri's being, as was evidenced by the slightly grayish tone his skinhad taken.

Jarlaxle had professed ignorance to what it might portend,and Entreri had no idea at all, and so he had chosen to simply ignore itall-except on occasions when he took a moment to consider his present state.

"They are in their cave," Jarlaxle informedhis companion, referring to a ragtag band of highwaymen they had followed intothe foothills.

"Why do we care?"

"Must I explain every adventure to you, detail bydetail?" the drow replied with that grin of his that always promisedEntreri that they were going to get into serious trouble.

Jarlaxle, freed from the confines of the Underdark byhis decision to turn his mercenary band of dark elves over to a lieutenant,seemed to desire life right on the edge of disaster.

Entreri wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not.

They were living fairly well, in those times they satstill long enough to realize the spoils of their adventures. They traveledfrom town to town, putting down no roots, taking jobs-usually as bodyguards orbounty hunters-as they found them. Every so often, circumstance forced atactical retreat-it didn't take long for Entreri and Jarlaxle to wear out theirwelcome, after all-but on most occasions, it seemed to Entreri that theirconstant movement and hunting for adventure was more the realization ofJarlaxle's agenda than the pressing pursuit of any authorities.

"You truly want us to join in with a band ofhighwaymen?'' Entreri skeptically asked. "Are we to climb through theirranks, position by position, by proving ourselves worthy in the eyes of theirself-appointed leader?"

"You live for sarcasm."

"I am being tutored by the best."

"At least in that, unlike in other matters, youadmit your inferiority, then."

Entreri had no answers, and didn't even bother to fixJarlaxle with a scowl. The dark elf would only find some witty answer for it,anyway, and would hardly be either threatened or bothered.

"We need not stay with them for long," thedark elf explained. "But they have some good food-of that I am certain,and I tire of our rations. Besides, this group might well lead us to somegreater ally or adventure; we will never learn unless we seek."

Entreri didn't bother to argue, and fell right intostep as Jarlaxle started away, moving toward the road they both knew thehighwaymen to be currently working.