R. Salvatore - The Collected Stories, The Legend of Drizzt

With howls turning to yelps, the beasts disappeared through the floor, tumbling to the room below. Jarlaxle bent immediately and scooped up the hole, sealing the floor above them.

“I have to get one of those,” Entreri remarked.

“If you do, don’t jump into mine with it,” said Jarlaxle.

Entreri fixed him with a puzzled expression.

“Rift … astral … you don’t want to know,” Jarlaxle assured him.

“Right. Now, where does that leave us?” the assassin asked the shade.

“It leaves you with an enemy you do not understand!” the dark man replied.

He laughed and moved to the side, disappearing so quickly, so completely into the shadows that it seemed a trick of the eyes to Entreri. Still, the assassin did manage to flick his fingers, and knew his tiny missile had struck home when he heard a slight chirp from the man.

“You favor the darkness, drow?” the dark man asked, and as he finished, the room went perfectly black.

“I do!” Jarlaxle responded, and he blew on the whistle again: a short burst, a long one, and another short one. Entreri heard the door slam.

It was all happening quickly, and purely on instinct, the assassin drew out his sword and his jeweled dagger and moved protectively back against the bed. He tipped his cap again, though he understood this to be magical darkness, impenetrable even by those who had the ability to see in the dark. It was fortunate he did, though, for right after the chill enshrouded his body, he felt the sudden intense heat of a fireball filling the room.

He was down and under the bed in an instant, then came out the other side as the burning mattress collapsed.

“Caster!” he yelled.

“Seriously?” came Jarlaxle’s sarcastic reply.

“Seriously,” came the dark man’s cry. “And I fear not your little stings!”

“Really?” Entreri asked him, and he was moving as he spoke, trying hard not to give the dark man any definitive target. “Even from your own window need-?”

His last word was cut short, though, as complete silence engulfed the room. Profound, magical silence that quieted even the yelping and howling dogs below. Entreri knew that it was Jarlaxle’s doing, the drow’s standard opening salvo against dangerous magic-users. Without the ability to use verbal components, a wizard’s repertoire was severely limited.

But now Entreri had to worry about himself, for his magical sword began a sudden assault upon his sensibilities, compelling him to turn the blade back on himself and take his own life. He had already fought this struggle of wills with the stubborn weapon, but with an apparent representative of its creators nearby, the sword seemed even angrier.

But the assassin wore the gauntlet, which minimized the effect the sword could have on him, and he was able to hold the upper hand-somewhat. For he also had to keep exact track of where he was in the room. He had one good shot because of his previous actions and words, he knew, and to miss the opportunity would make this situation even more dangerous.

He aligned himself with the heat emanating from the bed, turned in the direction he guessed to be perfectly perpendicular to the window, then took three definitive strides across the room, finally sheathing the stubborn sword as he went.

He struck once, he struck fast, and he struck true, right into the back of the dark man, his vampiric, life-stealing jeweled dagger diving in deep.

A strange feeling engulfed Entreri as the dagger pumped forth the life force of the dying man, dizzying and disorienting. He fell back, then stumbled silently to the floor, and lay there for a long while.

Soon after, he heard the dogs barking again from below.

“It’s over,” he announced, fearing that Jarlaxle would drop another silence on the room.

A moment later, the darkness lifted as well. Lying on the floor, Entreri looked straight up to see his dark elf companion similarly lying on the ceiling, hands tucked comfortably behind his head. Entreri also noticed that the scarring on the walls and ceiling ended in a bubble about the drow, as if he had enacted some shield that magic, or the fireball, at least, could not affect.

The assassin wasn’t surprised.

“Well done,” Jarlaxle congratulated, floating down gently to the floor, as Entreri stood and brushed himself off. “Without sight or hearing, how did you know he was there?”

Entreri looked over at the dead man. He had pulled out the top drawer of the dresser as he’d slumped to the floor, its contents spilled about him.

“I told him I had hit him with the needle from the window,” the assassin explained. “I guessed that one of those bottles contained the antidote. He wanted to use the cover of the darkness and the silence to take care of that little detail.”

“Well done!” said Jarlaxle. “I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”

Entreri shook his head. “He wasn’t lying about the sword,” he said. “It held an affinity to him. I felt it clearly, for it even tried to turn against me.”

“A Netherese blade.…” Jarlaxle mused. He looked at Entreri, and his eyes widened for just a moment, then a smile spread across his face. “Tell me, how does your sword feel about you now?”

Entreri shrugged, and gingerly drew the blade. He felt a definite closeness to it, more so than ever before. He turned his puzzled expression upon Jarlaxle.

“Perhaps it thinks of you as more akin to its original makers now,” the drow explained. When Entreri gave him an even more confused look, he added, looking at the fallen enemy, “He was no ordinary man.”

“So I guessed.”

“He was a shade-a creature infused with the stuff of shadow.”

Entreri shrugged, for that meant nothing to him.

“And you killed him with your vampiric dagger, yes?”

Entreri shrugged again, starting to get worried, but Jarlaxle merely laughed and produced a small mirror. Looking into it, Entreri could see, even in the dim light, that his normally brown skin had taken on a bit of a gray pallor-nothing too noticeable.

“You have infused yourself with a bit of that essence,” said the drow.

“And what does that mean?” the alarmed assassin asked.

“It means you’ve just become even better at your craft, my friend,” Jarlaxle said with a laugh. “We will learn in time just how much.”

Entreri had to be satisfied with that, he supposed, because there seemed nothing further coming from his oft-cryptic friend. He bent over and picked up the discarded idol. This time it remained silent.

“We should go and collect our money from the innkeeper,” he said.

“And?” the drow asked.

“And kill the dolt for setting us up.”

“That might not go over well with the Heliogabalus authorities,” Jarlaxle reasoned.

Entreri’s answer was one so typical that Jarlaxle silently mouthed the words along with him.

“Then we won’t tell anybody.”

The Year of the Banner (1368 DR)

For a long time and across many storefronts and kiosks, he could not be seen because he did not want to be seen. For Artemis Entreri, with so many years of living in the shadows, it was as easy as that. He moved along Wall Way, a solitary figure perusing the mercantile district of the Damarran Capital of Heliogabalus on a stormy night. Torrential rains sent small rivers running along the sides of the cobblestoned street, named because of its proximity to Heliogabalus’s towering outer wall.

A flash of lightning revealed the figure as he stood in front of one of the two opposing collector’s shops set on the road loop known as Wall’s Around. He was wrapped in a slick black cloak, shining with wetness. He had the drape pulled over both his shoulders in the inclement weather, but it was back on his right side enough to show the jeweled hilt of his signature dagger. He wore a flat-topped hat with a tight round brim, quite extraordinary in a land of simple hoods and scarves. Still, that hat paled in comparison to the one worn by the slender figure that drifted past him in the next flash of lightning, a great floppy, wide-brimmed affair, with one side pinned up and a gigantic feather reaching out from it.