R. Salvatore - Night of the Hunter

Matron Mother Quenthel’s hand went to her scourge, and the five snakes came to life instantly, writhing around and focusing their flicking tongues on Jarlaxle. Something was very wrong, and on a large scale, Jarlaxle knew, and particularly unsettling was the behavior of his sister.

His stupid, weakling sister.

He looked to Gromph again and the archmage returned his inquisitive expression with the slightest, but most definite of nods. Quenthel would actually whip him, he realized to his ultimate shock.

“Take us home, Archmage,” Matron Mother Quenthel ordered.

Later that same day, Jarlaxle wandered the corridors of House Do’Urden in the West Wall neighborhood of Menzoberranzan, coordinating a hundred Bregan D’aerthe foot soldiers as they scoured the place of any remaining vagabonds and secured each of the entrances.

He was glad that he had capable lieutenants around him, setting up the defenses of the House, exploring secret passages, and generally readying the place for proper inhabitation once more. Jarlaxle’s thoughts were anywhere but House Do’Urden.

He was glad when Gromph finally found him, in a quiet anteroom to the Do’Urden House chapel.

“How? Who?” he asked bluntly, both questions obviously referring to the strange and powerful creature that seemed to be inhabiting Quenthel’s body.

Gromph snorted. “It’s a long story. She handled you fairly, and with wisdom.”

“And I find that the most unsettling thing of all!” Jarlaxle replied. By Quenthel’s order, to all looking in on this, it would seem as if Bregan D’aerthe had formally been hired by House Baenre to prepare House Do’Urden; indeed, House Baenre was even paying Jarlaxle for the service.

“All will be as it has been,” Quenthel had assured him. “To all of Menzoberranzan, you are merely Jarlaxle, and your organization remains independent, and indeed that is the truth, as long as you serve me well.”

If Jarlaxle didn’t play this well, he realized, Bregan D’aerthe would be absorbed into the Baenre garrison, and everything he had spent his life building would come crumbling down around him.

“You knew it had to happen sooner or later,” Gromph said to him, as if reading his mind, which truly, at that time, would prove no difficult task. The eyepatch might prevent such magical intrusions, but it could not hide the obvious.

And Gromph was right, Jarlaxle had to admit. His life and his organization was in many ways a charade. Indeed, it survived because of that very fact, forever on the edge of disaster, forever just at the edge of the sufferance of the Matron Mother of Menzoberranzan, forever just a power play away from wrecking that sufferance.

Unless Jarlaxle wanted open war.

In the halls of a place once known as House Do’Urden, the thought crossed his mind.

The drow crept up to the ledge, flat on his belly on the cold stone, and peered down at the road below, shaking his head in disbelief. This side of the small hillock was a straight drop, perhaps thirty feet or more, affording him a splendid view of the troupe moving past him on the road below.

Braelin Janquay had heard of Drizzt Do’Urden, of course, but seeing him now, riding a shining white unicorn with a horn of gold and a coat of elaborate barding covered in bells-bells that were silent now, and obviously magically connected to the will of the rider-took the young scout’s breath away. The rogue rode easily, very comfortable in the small saddle and using the unicorn’s long white mane as his reins. His scimitars bounced along at his hips, the diamond edge of Icingdeath catching the morning light and reflecting it brilliantly, and the ease with which he carried a bow across his shoulders spoke of great skill with that weapon, as well.

And indeed, Jarlaxle had told Braelin of the bow called Heartseeker, and had claimed that Drizzt could take down a line of orcs with a single shot, or split stone, even, with the lightning arrows.

That last recollection had Braelin edging back from the stony ledge just a bit.

A huge black panther loped along beside the unicorn and seemed on edge, constantly turning at this sound or that.

The scout thought of Tiago Baenre. It was no secret among Bregan D’aerthe that the young warrior had been seeking Drizzt for two decades now, determined to claim the rogue’s head as a trophy. The whispers said that Jarlaxle and Beniago had gone to great lengths to keep Tiago away from Drizzt, and now Braelin understood the wisdom of that choice.

He couldn’t imagine Tiago surviving an encounter with this one.

To say nothing of Drizzt’s companions, even, for beside him rode the human woman named Catti-brie, astride a spectral mount, another unicorn and one she had summoned with a magical spell, a steed nearly as impressive as the drow’s own. Behind them came a wagon, pulled by mules and driven by a young and ferocious red-bearded dwarf wearing a one-horned helm and carrying an axe that had seen many battles-too many, if this one’s age was to be believed. Beside him sat another human, one whose parents must have included an ogre, Braelin thought, given his great size and obvious strength. On the road beside that formidable pair rode the halfling, Regis, on a fat pinto pony.

The troupe bounced down the muddy road to the southwest, seeming a carefree bunch, though they were leaving the safety of Ten-Towns behind. Other caravans were forming in the towns, particularly the closest one, Bremen, on the southern bank of Maer Dualdon, but those caravans would not leave without a full escort of at least twenty guards, Braelin had learned. Not at this time of the year, when the roads were full of yetis and goblinkin and all sorts of beasts ready to begin fattening up now that winter was at last letting go.

Yet here they were, a group of only five, depending on a slow-moving wagon, riding into the wilds, seemingly without a care in the world.

Watching them, Braelin Janquay hadn’t a doubt in the world that they would get through the Spine of the World safely.

And Jarlaxle and Beniago would be waiting for them. He slid back from the ledge. Perhaps he could at last leave this forsaken place and deliver this last report in person. He’d shadow the group to their first camp, then go past them in the dark of night-and perhaps even get in close to the camp to see if he might find a bauble or two of his own …

With a wicked smile on his face, the young Bregan D’aerthe scout crept back to the ledge and looked back to the companions, who had moved off. Something struck Braelin as different about the troupe then, but he dismissed it as unimportant-until he realized that the black panther was no longer beside them.

Sent home to the Astral Plane? he wondered. He had been well-schooled in the ways of Drizzt Do’Urden before being sent in pursuit of the strange halfling.

He nodded, thinking that must be it, hoping that must be it.

Then he realized that Drizzt Do’Urden, riding calmly and easily still, no longer had his bow slung over his shoulder …

“Likely a jackalope or wayward caribou,” Catti-brie whispered to Drizzt as they plodded along. Something had attracted Guenhwyvar’s attention, and Drizzt had let the panther run off.

“Guen will let us know,” Drizzt assured her. He turned back to the other three. “If her warning call sounds, guard the wagon at all costs. We don’t want to lose our supplies to a hungry yeti.”

“Not a yeti,” Wulfgar replied. “A yeti would have had to be closer, or even Guenhwyvar would not have noted it.”

“You underestimate Guen.”

“You have forgotten tundra yetis, then?” Wulfgar asked.

“Aye, elf, ye ain’t remembering how many times I pulled ye out from under one o’ them beasties when you runned right into them?” Bruenor added.