Iceheart Firesoul: I was actually tempted to kill Entreri off because I don't like the PotWK storyline that came out of the short story, Wickless in the Nether. But the story wouldn't work if I did. Besides, a little humility is good for Jarlaxle's soul.
Yuen: Glad you enjoyed it, thanks.
A/N: The epilogue turned into a chapter. Now would be a good time to ask any questions about the story; I fully intend to use the 'cut scenes' pseudo-chapter to answer them.
Fly, thought, on wings of gold,
go settle upon the slopes and the hills
where the sweet airs of our
native soil smell soft and mild!
...Oh, my country so lovely and lost!
Oh, remembrance so dear so fraught with despair!
-Giuseppe Verdi, Home (derived from his opera, Nabucco)
Epilogue
Entreri didn't have severe issues with Chondath's mosquitoes or biting flies, but the heat was getting on his nerves. In Chondalwood's enclosed spaces it was twice as bad. As an assassin used to working in a desert environment, he was used to dry heat and cool nights. The heat was not as brutal as Calimshan's summer sun, but the humidity was constant and pervasive. With spring edging toward summer, the nights did not bring their previous cool relief.
He wasn't thrilled with the soupy conditions and he'd gotten over the charming glow of the fireflies. More difficult to get over were the revolving shadows the small creatures created; even without a breeze the moving lights created a constant illusion of disconcerting movement. The high volume of the incessant cicada population was annoying in the extreme. The buzz hardly ceased during the day and was without pause during the smothering nights. Entreri was not the happiest of campers.
He had long since banked his small campfire and rested his back against a tree with smooth bark. His knees were drawn up and his chin rested easily on his chest. His gloved hand was curled around a long, cloth-wrapped package that did little to conceal Vritra's dimensions. At least in sedate Chondath nobody asked questions, whether they were going to rob a traveler or not.
Not comfortable traveling without proper protection, but not interested in his stifling leathers, the assassin had taken to relying exclusively on the lightweight and breathable black shirt Jakadirek Mi'iduor had sewn. That comfort had been interrupted when the drow tailor had shown up in the middle of a Chondalwood night to retrieve the item.
Initially Entreri was unwilling to give up the comfortable protection. After a flat refusal to give up the shirt, the assassin capitulated on the basis of information. His questions were cruel and pragmatic. He came out of the trade with an understanding of what Vritra did to Jaka, clarification on details Vritra's had left in his mind, and that the lad hadn't seen or heard from Jarlaxle in more than a tenday. Even though he got what he wanted out of the young male, the exchange reminded the assassin that his hatred of dark elves was not racist, but merely pragmatic.
Despite losing the protection of the thin black material, the assassin took to traveling and sleeping in his sleeveless undershirt. His senses were preternaturally sharp; he trusted them to alert him to danger before a hypothetical attack could land on him.
Due to the heat and humidity, it still took Entreri a long time to fall under the influence of sleep, even dressed lightly within the thin traveling cloak he had purchased a week prior in Iljak.
Iljak had been a disappointment. The dimension door had opened in the room he and Jarlaxle had shared their first night in the disagreeable country. His first concern was to wrap Vritra in his thick traveling cloak before heading out past a startled housekeeper to purchase a cloak more appropriate to the weather. He found something better to wrap the sword in at the same time. His next step had been to pick up some money.
When he'd gone to recover his deposit for the rented horses, he discovered the mercenaries had indeed returned the horses for him as they promised to do. They had also helped themselves to his deposit. Shir, the ranger, had even left a note explaining they felt it was a just recompense for thieving from the merchant wagon. Entreri had fumed in silence. He had no intention of scouring the countryside for the group, especially over something that started with the theft of dried lemon peel.
As hard as sleep was to come by, he woke instantly the moment he felt a gaze upon him. He was certain he'd only slept a few hours when the feeling swept over him. Instinctually, his gloved hand tightened on Vritra and his opposite on Charon's Claw. The droning cicadas, locusts, and crickets made a wall of noise that crushed other sounds far below normal hearing. Entreri's hearing, though sharp, was still only that of a human; there was nothing to hear beneath the cover of insect racket.
As he waited, eyes peering into the night through a blur of black lashes, the assassin noticed a strange phenomenon. It was not visible, but somewhat audible, or more correctly, inaudible. The cicadas in the tree he was leaning against were loud, but he could still hear the locusts and crickets in other areas of the wood. It was hard to distinguish, but there was a disconcerting lack of noise further out and that lack of noise was moving through the forest like a bubble.
The fleeting sense was quickly lost in the racket saturating the wooded expanse. It was, after all, only noticeable as a cessation of noise and the space was easily filled by the insects infesting the area. Falling back into sleep was nearly impossible, even without the piercing knowledge that the path the bizarre bubble of 'non-noise' had taken was the same Entreri had yet to complete.
Morning light did not find him well rested, but he went through the motions of breaking his small camp and was soon on his way. As he walked, he looked for signs of the mysterious phenomenon, but found no trace. Eventually, he dismissed the phantom as proof the forest really was haunted.
The weather continued to be inhospitable to the desert-born man, but it was not the problem bleakness of spirit had been in the beginning of the journey. a decade earlier when Entreri had first thought of faking his death with the dagger, he had known it was the sort of risky stunt that would come with a high price. The despair left in the wake of the theft of life force had convinced the assassin that between his unnamed dagger and Charon's Claw, a merciful death would be more likely from the seething blood red blade.
Entreri held no illusions that the sentience within Charon's Claw called for his death every moment of its existence, and a hideous death at that. His dagger, nothing more than an unfeeling tool, did not afflict the body; it afflicted the spirit. Previous in his career as a heartless killer, Entreri would not have seen the difference between the two weapons. The man had learned to differentiate since his time in Menzoberranzan and the self-destructive stint that followed him to Calimport.
The cure for the spiritual affliction was surprising. When he betrayed Jarlaxle, as he had decided he would during their brief imprisonment, it had amused the assassin. Satisfaction had improved his condition. It was a bizarre situation and one that came with a certain annoying understanding. Obviously, the moronic saying that laughter was good for the soul wasn't totally unfounded. It was more proof that Jarlaxle's ability to enjoy himself no matter the situation was healthy. The assassin assured himself that the drow overdid it, but was persuaded again that it wouldn't weaken him to enjoy life a little more. There was still a question of how to do so.
With a smirk, he recalled the look on Jarlaxle's face the moment the dark elf had figured out Entreri was going to leave him with Ashrei. Remembering the mercenary's stricken expression had done the assassin a world of good. As far as the dark elf went, Entreri considered the two betrayals cancelled each other out. He would never allow a betrayal to cancel a betrayal for anyone else.
---
Entreri arrived at his destination under cover of night. He was uncertain the timing was not Vritra's intent, but under wraps and in his gauntleted hand, the assassin supposed any subliminal direction still wriggling in his blood was strictly residual.
The night failed to bring relief from the heat and within the swamp the humidity was a suffocating haze. Slogging alone through hip deep waters had not worried him the first time he had traversed the area. With two other creatures with him, enough water was disturbed that few predators were interested in attacking. Traveling alone was far more dangerous.
Entreri could not see beneath the violently green mass of tiny green leaves floating on top of the water. He relied on his hearing for the sounds of large objects sliding into the water and other water movements. His eyes focused on no point in specific, but gathered in the general layout of his surroundings. Any rippling of the wet carpet spread across the water was analyzed with obsessive accuracy.
Ahead loomed the hill marked and claimed by long abandoned shrines. Obeying ingrained caution, Entreri did not follow the softly glowing stones up the rise, but traversed the odd hill's circumference. It was not perfectly round, but it still struck Entreri as unnatural. It put him in mind of the mound-building activities of some of the more primitive peoples he'd seen traveling through diverse lands. It was still a habit of the Northern barbarians, he mused, thinking back to his brief trip through the snow-covered reaches.
Stranger to the assassin was not the shape of the hill or the enormous amount of luminescent moss encroaching over every available surface: it was the scarcity of animal activity. There were traces of alligators, swamp deer, and a few other creatures, but nothing made a home of the hill. A few prints left by lizard men dotted the base of the hill and those associated with Casteja's mad flight almost two tenday past.
Entreri crouched by one of Casteja's prints, which was filled with water and had the first fingers of glowing moss spreading across it. His own foot steps, light as they were even in a full run, were also evident, but as dark marks scarring the terrain. Jarlaxle's harsh boot heels had scored less deeply into the soft earth than Casteja's but they were equally as dark.
The assassin had expected to find more humanoid tracks, but there were none; obviously Casteja had informed no one where he and Tan were going. It didn't convince him there wasn't another presence on the hill. He recalled the short conversation between Jaka and Jarlaxle about the hill being haunted, but was not an expert in such matters. If a presence or moment lay over the area, Entreri was not skilled in reading the ambience. He tentatively wrote the feeling off to the meeting he expected to take place at the shrine and began to ascend the hill in order to approach the small structure from the back.
His approach was quiet, the shadow of a shadow; silence covered by a soft wind that flowed around the firefly-lit hill. The heavy scent of musty incense clothed the breeze near the summit. It was a familiar scent that announced the presence he expected. The sinuous gray smoke was not visible until his dark eyes made out the darkened granite slabs that comprised the structures three vine-covered sides.
Once in sight, Entreri's perceptive ears also picked up familiar sounds. A boot heel tapping stone, the rustle of cloth, a clink of glass. Entreri's mind composed the scene before he even saw what he knew would be a meticulously established tableau. He approached with all the caution one should employ when meeting with a well-prepared dark elf.
The sludge-filled incense urn had been cleaned out, new sand filled it, and the finest grade of dark elven incense was smoldering within. Entreri was relieved to note it was not an intoxicating blend that was sending smoke trails around the shrine.
Many of the candles were gone, but several new ones were mounted on the rusted iron spikes. Only half the new ones were lit, throwing flickering light onto the colorful mercenary and illuminating the jaunty diatryma feather in what Entreri assumed was a new hat rather than a patched one. The altar was spread with his rainbow colored cape and Jarlaxle sat atop that, one leg crossed over the other, his boot tapping rhythmically against the urn.
He was wearing a new set of clothes in a riot of color that might have given a lesser man an intense headache. The assassin was used to the onslaught and hardly cringed. The lack of black shirt was the only item that caused Entreri to sneer. Either the little bastard had lied about seeing or hearing word of Jarlaxle or the mercenary had packed the shirt away.
Joining the drow on the altar was a bottle of rare wine, a leather-bound container, and a ceramic vessel of drow make. Entreri had a guess what the implements portended, but didn't make assumptions. Considering the terms they had parted under, Entreri was ready for a deadly confrontation of epic proportion and scathing manners.
"I knew you wouldn't leave me at the altar," the mercenary smirked, raising a wine glass in a mock salute the moment the assassin came into view.
"Far be it for me to disappoint you," Entreri returned, completely ignoring the joke. He wasn't sure if Jarlaxle had picked a seat on the altar for theatrical or strategic reasons. Likely both; the dark elf had managed to place himself in the assassin's way.
"You have yet to truly disappoint me," Jarlaxle chuckled, placing the wine glass in the air, as if resting it on an invisible shelf. Exhibiting no obvious caution, the cagey drow opened the leather-bound cylinder and proceeded to pour a dark liquid into the ceramic vessel. Entreri saw the steam and knew the earthy scent of coffee, even if he didn't know what kind it was.
"You've gone out of your way to make this a pleasant reunion," Entreri stated without emotion. If he'd been less professional all the pleasantries Jarlaxle had brought with him would only make him nervous.
The dark elf grinned wickedly at the statement and nodded. "My friend, how could I do any less for somebody who outfoxed me so cleverly? Especially when you made it clear you wanted me to find you? It seems we are almost completely settled up."
Entreri's eyes narrowed at the dark elf's words, a look of skepticism that said all he needed without wasting his breath.
Jarlaxle laughed at the expression and offered the cup of fragrant coffee. "Artemis, you took a small hoard of magic items and valuables with you. If that wasn't an engraved invitation, I don't know what is."
Paranoia lived in every inch of Entreri's soul, but he took the offering in his left hand, while his right stayed wrapped around Vritra. If Jarlaxle planned to kill him, there were more painful ways than poison. He knew the drow as the vengeful sort, fully capable of dragging out death until he became bored with the proceedings. By that reasoning, he believed the drink was safe, but drinking with a possible enemy wasn't Entreri's custom. "You said 'almost'. What have we left to settle?"
"So, you don't deny that keeping my property was an invitation?" The malicious dark elf grinned knowingly at the immediate scowl that appeared on Entreri's face. Perhaps the assassin wasn't the type to force a verbal apology out of Jarlaxle, but Jarlaxle wasn't the type to refrain from annoying the man needlessly.
"If getting rid of it frees me of your presence," Entreri snorted, "I can easily dispose of it in the swamp."
Jarlaxle only shrugged and took the glass of wine back. "The 'almost' I mentioned involves you returning my belongings. I admit I wronged you and then you, my sly friend, evened the score. Ah, the position you left me in, Artemis, looked quite bleak."
A hint of a smirk pulled faintly at the assassin's lips. The look was so brief and miniscule that Jarlaxle thought it likely Entreri wasn't aware of it. "I'm sure you made the best of the situation."
Mischief sparkled in the dark elf's uncovered red eye. Pausing for dramatic effect, he took a slow sip of his wine before answering. The pause did not affect the assassin, but Jarlaxle could no more divorce his theatrical leanings than he could his heritage. Moreover, he enjoyed both too much to think of trying to change one or the other.
"Yes, I must admit that I was no less than brilliant," Jarlaxle sighed in smug self-satisfaction. He pursed his dark lips thoughtfully and looked up in remembrance. "I got everything I wanted: the reward, information, some agreements, and the sort of sex that requires a good masseuse the next day. You understand that since you were not present, I had to accept your half of the reward."
Entreri gave Jarlaxle a revolted look. "I pray you do not imply that the general laid you on my behalf."
The mercenary's visible eye narrowed slightly in response, but the smile did not leave his face. "If I did, would you lose control of your temper again?"
Any goodwill the assassin was beginning to feel was abruptly doused from his system. His eyes grew hard and unfeeling as the taunt recalled all Entreri's usual armor, closing off his emotions just as surely as he always had. "You must have replenished your supply of magic items already, or you wouldn't ask."
In no way did Jarlaxle lose his composure; this was a strategic attack. He'd had a week to study and analyze the whole adventure and Entreri's behavior from beginning to end. "I suspect Vritra revived your rage as it revived Jaka's weakness. Sweet Lady Lolth, it must be an incredible drain to fight that temper of yours."
The mere mention of the resurgence in his anger heated the assassin's blood. In response, he summoned the ice he'd cultivated in his heart over the decades to numb his angry impulses. "It was Jaka's weakness that saved his mind."
Instantly intrigued by the remark, Jarlaxle leaned forward; Entreri had just offered him the opening to a conversation he'd been lusting after for more than a tenday. The key to besting any opponent was to understand their motivations, but Vritra was impossible to understand; its desires and physiology, its very existence, were utterly alien to anything the wily dark elf had ever experienced. "Do you know what his weakness is?"
Any answer, Entreri knew, could lead to a dangerous amount of personal information falling into Jarlaxle's possession. The last time they were in the swamp, Entreri could have allowed that, but without a clear understanding of Jarlaxle's current plan the assassin was didn't want to reveal anything.
He made no immediate verbal response, but set his untouched coffee on the altar and reached into one of the pouches on his belt to retrieve a familiar black purse. He weighed it needlessly in his hand, of more importance was his iron gaze as it met Jarlaxle's.
It was not an easily read expression and all the more difficult to interpret on the assassin's face. The crafty drow wished Kimmuriel were at hand to tell him what Entreri was thinking, but judging what he knew of the assassin, he doubted the master psionicist could manage. Ever was Entreri one so removed from personal emotion and introspection that it was likely the man had no idea what he was feeling. It looked two parts threat to one part dare with a dash of suspicion thrown in for good measure.
He had yet to decipher what it could mean when Entreri tossed the decorative bag to the mercenary. Jarlaxle caught it in his free hand, red eyes widening in speculative pleasure. It was his bottomless bag and, last he'd checked, it held the lion's share of his missing magic items and abundant wealth. With its return came the filament of understanding he needed to piece together the assassin's intention.
It was a matter of trust. Hated and despised trust. Trust he'd taken and spent like a cheap coin. Trust; the downfall of the foolish and cornerstone of friendship. Was Entreri's betrayal no less malignant? Only because it was a necessary comeuppance. Now the assassin was making a small show of giving back the stolen items. Jarlaxle was ready to be mistaken, but he interpreted the gesture as a return of a small portion of trust.
Jarlaxle set his glass on the cloak-draped altar and broke eye contact to look at the embroidered pouch. After a moment of silent contemplation, he looked up again. "In my time in Menzoberranzan I learned, among other boring things, basic math."
The suspicion in the assassin's demeanor intensified with the unexpected twist in conversation, but he nodded his understanding. It was a matter of habit or his unconventional intelligence that Jarlaxle always explained things in the most unexpected manner.
"Things like one plus one yields two," the dark elf continued. Entreri noted the male slipped the pouch away without checking the contents. "Or that two subtracted from one leaves you a deficit of one. We were taught certain mathematical equations are as eternal as time or revenge... Of course, you can imagine the sort of response one receives when it is suggested those eternal equations could be ended the moment they were disrupted with the insertion of a few strategically placed amounts."
The level gaze Entreri kept on Jarlaxle did not change when an old memory of a numerical diviner from Shaar surfaced. He wondered if he attracted people with mathematical leanings or if math was the most inoffensive way to explain certain issues to a man who specialized in ending life.
"Spare me the tutorial," the man stated coldly. He had a vague idea where Jarlaxle was going with the commentary, but wanted to spare himself the conclusion. There were words he didn't want to hear and things he didn't want to acknowledge. "Of course I know what Mi'iduor's weakness is, just as I know Vektch's."
The colorful mercenary took Entreri's return to the prior subject with a hint of a smile that understated the strength of his feeling. Only Jarlaxle could look on such a forbidding, negative man and see anything remotely positive. It was the same knack of seeing obscure patterns that told him much about the world around him and that suddenly pushed back his inner mirth. Understanding lanced through him; he knew what connected the three, perhaps even all four, of them.
"Jaka's problem lies with a twisted mother and Casteja saw his mother in Ashrei, even if it was subconscious. I doubt that was a coincidence."
"That was part of the issue," Entreri confirmed, firmly set against delving into the issue. He knew Jarlaxle was too brilliant not to think of a further connection and knew that to deny it was only to confirm it. "The other portion was that the sacrificed deity was a creature characterized by shedding light and blessing birth."
Intrigue lit Jarlaxle's features more brightly than the candles inside the darkened shrine. "And of course, this is her shrine, this Phosealis our tactician mentioned. I've never heard of either god; they must be quite ancient."
"Vektch discovered Vritra here during a war so long ago that there's no longer any reference to his country or gods," the assassin explained. He did not miss how easy it was to steer Jarlaxle from the previous topic. "He had no predisposition to distrust drow, because they were completely unknown to him before he was ejected from Vritra."
"He was the first to discover it, was he?" Leaning back, Jarlaxle struck a thoughtful pose. "We may not have existed yet. That is a terribly long time ago, Artemis. Ashrei mentioned something about Casteja living in 'old days' at the same time she complimented him about his ability to withstand things that would make most insane. Living for thousands on possibly thousands of years or spending time as an illithid study subject might make a person go mad, I suppose."
"He spent all those thousands of years inside Vritra," Entreri supplied with all seriousness, "imprisoned and hardly moving."
An astonished expression swept up Jarlaxle's eyebrows and rounded his eyes. "When did the illithids discover the sword?"
"Perhaps a thousand years ago," the assassin replied. "I think Vritra sustained his sanity through the ordeal by doing something to his perception of time. I won't pretend that I understand mind powers. The less I encounter them, the better."
The dark elf nodded, swirling wine in his delicate glass. Absently he followed the flickering glints the candlelight lent the surface of the liquid and admired the spiraling patterns created. "How long have you known all this?"
The question was potentially hazardous, but innocent enough. The assassin knew Jarlaxle knew him well enough to realize that he had not been affecting an act over the betrayal by deception. "I've known it actively since the cell door was blown back in Arrabar. When Vritra broke into my mind, it ravaged through my knowledge and experience. To aid its progress, it used information from Vektch and Mi'iduor. As a result, I know more about both of them than I'd like."
The dark elf took another sip of his wine before looking down at Entreri from his seat on the altar. "And that's why you've come here? Casteja's knowledge?"
The assassin remained uncertain of Jarlaxle's motives, but knew enough about the male to be sure he had no plans to get his greedy jet hands on Vritra. "My plan is to put the damn thing back where Vektch found it."
A serene smile drifted over Jarlaxle's face. "And that would be…?"
It wasn't out of the question that Jarlaxle was only there in order to find out where Entreri would drop the sword. Instantly the assassin's expression reverted to one of menace. "Why? So Jarlaxle can sell the information to the highest bidder?"
"Not necessarily," the mercenary protested, his free hand pressing over his heart. "I am an honorable male. Far be it for me to think of profit in such a grave case."
Jarlaxle was never more incongruent than when he tried to look innocent. Entreri dropped his left hand onto the hilt of Charon's Claw, but the dark elf only laughed. "Artemis, I swear to you I'm only interested in keeping tabs on it! I can think of no one I want to have it, other than Casteja, and even then it makes him to powerful to be useful to me. Besides, my friend, there are other things I want to know that have no bearing on profit. Like how Casteja came to find it."
In a way, Jarlaxle mourned all the wonderful information, the bits if history ages past and pieces of personal lives Entreri received. Taciturn men were graveyards for such stories, but he wouldn't have traded places with Entreri to get them. He was neither so generous nor loving a friend. Trying to get the assassin to tell him anything could be an arduous process typically rewarded with a bland recounting of facts.
Entreri wasn't inclined to delve into the memories he'd received from Vritra. With Casteja gone and little chance of having to deal with Jaka again, there was no reason to do so. He thought back anyway, to the vague image of a gray morning thousands of years past.
There was a chaotic scene, an injured Casteja clad in gray, stained with red, the feeling of frozen breath blowing back in his face. A meeting with his wolfish mother on the churned and frost covered field as he had tried to gain the safety of the shrine of Phosealis.
"He and his mother were on a battlefield in this area," the assassin began. "His side was losing and he was running to this shrine to take cover. As a joke, she nearly ran him down on her war horse, but it was no joke that she, like a good mercenary, had switched to his enemy's side."
A snort escaped Jarlaxle as he refilled his glass. "No wonder all the stories he told me of her only warm my blood. She sounds divine."
Entreri was careful not to let Casteja's memory cloud his judgment; the dual feelings for the woman were not his. "While the two were talking, a powerful weapon was fired in their direction. His mother set spurs to her horse, leaving a wounded Vektch to run for cover on foot. The projectile did not hit either of them, but broke up the ground all around. The force of the explosion caused him internal injury and frozen debris shredded much of his flesh. He was thrown to the foot of the shrine where the ground was split wide."
"And his mother?" The dark elf asked the question casually, though his interest was more intense. He offered Entreri the cup of coffee again. "I recall that you like your swill hot."
Relenting a bit at a time to Jarlaxle's familiarity, Entreri took the dark brew in hand, but did not drink. "She returned with her horse, unscathed. It was Vektch's bad luck to fall into one of the rents in the ground. When he asked for help out of the deep rut, she said nothing and turned her horse back toward the battle."
"Casteja could never get over how his mother left him to die on the battlefield," Jarlaxle mused, covertly noting the carefully emotionless mask on Entreri's face. It was the mercenary's strong suspicion that the assassin was faced with a similar situation in his mysterious youth. In a way, Jarlaxle was grateful his megalomaniacal mother had sacrificed him at birth; it was hard for a dark elf to ever have feelings for family members in a Lolthian society. Rejection at birth was a sure cure for any of the ills of filial attachment.
"He got over it," Entreri corrected tonelessly, "over the thousands of years he spent in Vritra's stomach. When he fell into the frozen ground he ended up under Phosalais' altar. That's where he found the sword. I intend to return it."
"I see," Jarlaxle nodded. He had suspected that was why the assassin had headed back toward the shrine. It had been a matter of speculation between him and Kimmuriel when he'd passed along the veritable mountain of copper coins Ashrei had given him as reward money.
Smiling agreeably, Jarlaxle jumped off the altar, landing lightly on his hard-soled feet. He knocked back the remainder of his wine and slipped both wine bottle and glass into the pouch Entreri had returned to him. Hands free once again, he swept his multicolored cape off the altar in a theatrical flourish only he appreciated.
He took a leisurely stroll around the shrine, looking it over closely, even switching his eye patch from one eye to the other as he studied the granite slabs. "It all looks so very solid, Artemis. How does one return the sword?"
The assassin used the wrapped sword to indicate the urn sitting before the altar. "By pulling that up."
The urn, like everything else connected to the small shrine, was marble or granite. Carved from a single block of stone, it came up to their hips, the base long since buried under earth and the pervasive moss. They both knew that lifting it was a doubtful task even if they were to join forces again.
Jarlaxle looked at the urn for a long moment before commenting wryly, "Were you truly planning to lift that alone? Please tell me how."
For the second time, Entreri placed the coffee on the altar in order to free his left hand. He pointedly took hold of Charon's Claw. "I'm not convinced the urn has to remain in one piece."
The assassin's plan was rewarded with a roll of Jarlaxle's eyes. "Have you no regard for antiquity or even sacred—of course not. Someday, my friend, your loathing for deities is going to land you in trouble."
Entreri answered with a derisive snort, holding up the wrapped sword meaningfully. "We both know the gods are not immortal."
"Far more immortal than Artemis Entreri," the drow smirked in return. "And far more powerful."
"Fortune truly smiles on them," the assassin replied. His sarcasm was caustic enough to blister the most potently enchanted weapon's steel. "Are you going to lend a hand or not?"
Forcing down a face-splitting grin, the dark elf nodded. It seemed entirely possible that he and Entreri were recovering their nebulous little friendship.
When Entreri crouched beside the urn and placed the wrapped sword on the ground, Jarlaxle knelt with him. He was pleased to watch the assassin produce a hunting knife and begin to dig at the base of the huge incense urn.
"You're not lending that hand," Entreri remarked sourly, stabbing the earth in a blinding chain of overhand blows.
"I'll lift the urn after you excavate the base," the dark elf grinned.
"Your skin is too dark to show the dirt, if that's your fear."
"But my clothes are not; I fear staining them."
"They'd only benefit."
Jarlaxle's smile threatened to engulf his face; there was nothing he'd wanted to hear more than Entreri's side of their constant verbal contests. He dared hope they would leave the shrine with the bonds of friendship intact.
It took the assassin the better part of half an hour to uncover the base of the urn. The ground was rich black soil, but the base was buried deep. As he threw the last handful of dirt aside, Entreri glanced meaningfully at Jarlaxle. "I'm assuming you have a spell for your part."
The dark elf answered with a feather-bobbing nod. "Just so. And may I say how refreshing it is to see your hands clothed in black?"
"They'll be bathed in red," Entreri sighed, shaking his head slightly as he stood, "if you don't move that thing."
Jarlaxle chuckled and passed a slender hand over the urn and through the sinuous column of smoke the dark elven incense continued to emit. Whether through one of the mercenary's many new rings or his own innate power, the solid granite object responded. It shuddered with a chatter of stone against stone. The sound and discordant vibration caused both males to grit their teeth.
An abrasive reply echoed from the altar, though nothing touched the heavy object. Entreri retrieved Vritra and looked over the altar for whatever the noise bespoke. The slab of stone on the altar they had been using as a bench and table, and on which Entreri's coffee still rested, had moved askew.
Jarlaxle lowered the urn gently, setting one of his throwing knives beneath it to keep the ancient vessel from resuming its previous position prematurely. Meanwhile, the assassin surveyed the gap the slab of granite had given up. Over years of countless subtle games of thievery and murder, the assassin had gained an excellent eye for spatial measurements. It was a simple matter to gauge the possibility of sliding the sword into the altar. It would fit whether there was sufficient depth or not.
"The shrine's floor must be cracked," Jarlaxle remarked, "if Casteja managed to find the sword in the ground beneath here."
Entreri shook his head in reply. "I don't think there's a granite bottom to crack."
A thoughtful expression assembled itself on Jarlaxle's face. He took another look at the slender bundle in the assassin's gloved hand, entertained a last few thoughts of profits lost and gained, and finally sighed. He shrugged; a graceful roll of his shoulders the assassin marked well. "Throw the damn thing in before I have second thoughts, Artemis."
A hint of a quirk at the assassin's lips revealed the man's excuse for humor. "I wouldn't want you to have second thoughts after I kept you waiting."
"True!" Jarlaxle chuckled at the reference and paraphrased Entreri's earlier comment. "I'd hate to disappoint you."
The assassin snorted softly, but did not reply verbally. Without hesitation or ceremony, he slipped the powerful item between the two stone edges. The granite edges were so smooth they did not so much as tug at the sword's wrapping. He did not feel it touch bottom when it disappeared into the depths of the altar nor did he hear it hit anything after he let go.
A heavy thud told him Jarlaxle's throwing dagger had either disappeared or dissipated. He reasoned a covert glance would reveal the ingenious magical bracer back on the male's arm. A reprise of grating stone followed, upsetting nerves anew, but brought the assassin some peace of mind. He took a long step back from the altar's side; there was no further information to act on from the malevolent creature and he felt no responsibility to its disposal.
For a few seconds, the assassin closed his eyes and merely breathed. Scents of swamp decay, drow incense, and earthy coffee painted a sensory picture in his mind. When he opened his eyes again Jarlaxle was studying him closely.
"I felt the tension ease from five arm lengths away," the mercenary smiled in good nature. "You must be confident in this resting place."
Before Entreri could reply, there came a pronounced hush to the wood that failed to make him or Jarlaxle at home. The crickets and cicadas ceased their chirping and droning, the slight breeze flowing before no longer rustled the leaves or billowed the draped vegetation. Unsure of what the uncharacteristic stillness portended, the two of them glanced briefly at the altar. Loath to be trapped within the structure in an attack, the two raced out of the shrine and partway down the hill along the glowing line of rounded stone markers.
Using drow hand code, they quickly communicated their parts in a possible coming conflict with whatever Vritra had left to throw against them or whatever swamp beast they had disrupted. Whatever it was, they agreed, it had to be magical in nature to vastly affect their surroundings.
Both looked into the distance for the source of the magical quietness. The fireflies furthest away along the path were dousing their illumination in a wave of growing darkness. If not for the continued moonlight, the two would have been more unnerved.
The dousing of the fireflies came toward them. As the insects closest to them shut down their glow, they could see the small creatures descend slowly to find purchase on foliage and the moss-covered rocks closest to them. They did not evidence pain or distress or even confusion.
The source of the strange disturbance approached in a wide path along either side of the time-worn stones. Entreri and Jarlaxle made themselves ready to face the shrine's visitor. Charon's Claw scraped out of its scabbard in hungry anticipation while Jarlaxle's hand drifted to the bracer that held his limitless stock of throwing daggers.
A shudder ran rampant down Jarlaxle's spine when the wave of darkness washed over them. His ebony skin prickled in reaction to an eerie feeling that accompanied the dousing lights. Behind them in the altar the candles guttered and died, but no wind blew them out. The feeling was akin to the one he'd felt in the cell in Arrabar; the sense of observation that came with Vritra. Only the observation was not directed at him specifically. It was as if it looked over him in the same manner as a stray moonbeam might travel through a room as the moon tracked across the sky. It was mindless and impersonal and he had the distinct feeling he just happened to be in the way.
Entreri did not feel the eerie presence as acutely, though the fine hairs on the back of his neck raised in reaction. He recalled the strange haunting he'd experienced in the middle of the night and whipped his head to the side to verify a sudden suspicion. The fireflies off the hill behind them were unaffected. The presence had followed the ancient path, enveloped the strange hill and moved no further.
It reminded him strongly of Jaka's mention of haunted moments. No wonder there were no inhabitants on the hill; the place truly was haunted. Haunted by the destruction of a god, not the deity itself.
No sooner had Entreri reached his conclusion before he heard the swamp's customary raucous noise resume from the direction the sensation had first appeared. The resumption of noise could be tracked visibly by the return of the fireflies' soft glow. It was just as otherworldly to see the wave of light and hear the swamp's roar approach along the path of stones as it had been when they had ceased.
The eerie sensation pressing in on the two did not lift until a soft breeze flowed over them. Behind the air movement, fireflies took wing and the frogs at the base of the hill resumed their spring peeping. The two watched light return around the shrine; only the candles did not regain their glow.
By wordless agreement, they sheathed their weapons and walked back up to the shrine. It did not feel strange to Entreri and Jarlaxle's dark elven sensitivities only registered the normal eeriness that shrouded the hill like the vegetation draping from the tree branches.
"A moment that spans all time," Jarlaxle mused, relighting the candles and then the incense. "I wouldn't like to experience that again."
Entreri exhaled slowly in agreement and finally took the coffee by his own initiative. He raised the earthenware vessel to his lips and took what he expected to be a steadying drink. He nearly spat it out; not only was it lukewarm, it was the disgusting brew out of Iljak. Throwing Jarlaxle a look of disgust, he set the vessel back on the altar with resolute strength. "Didn't I tell you that stuff was vile?"
Smugness exuded from the dark elf's every pore; his visible eye crinkled at the corner. "I didn't like it even when I added honey and alcohol."
The assassin snorted in revulsion and threw the contents of the cup out over his shoulder. It splashed audibly on the ground outside the shrine. "Are you saying you met up with those centaurs and chased them down with a set of floral pillow sheets?"
"With elven tatting," Jarlaxle reminded, his mirth growing all the more hearty. "No, but I was tempted to get a sample from the horses that lovely ranger returned for you. I stopped by Iljak after I provided Ashrei a contact that can supply Inyol an arm."
"Somebody on Bregan D'aerthe's dole, I assume," the assassin nodded. He tossed the coffee cup at the mercenary with perfect disdain.
"Naturally," Jarlaxle agreed. He caught the cup and shook the last drops of dark liquid from inside. "It seems our mercenary friends relieved the equally lovely, but cold-hearted, horse merchant of your deposit."
There was a tidbit of information Entreri hadn't wanted to share with the dark elf. Gray eyes met a singular crimson one in silent indication that he knew where the conversation was leading. Jarlaxle was not to be deterred and forged on regardless.
"And it was quite a sizeable amount, too," Jarlaxle sighed in a theatrical approximation of sympathy. "Making you a much poorer man than when we started out."
"Which is why you'll be handing over my share of the reward money," Entreri replied flatly.
"And I have every intention of doing so, my good man," the mercenary nodded, his diatryma feather nodding along with him. "Except you have no way of holding the amount of coin she gave me."
The assassin's eyes darkened with suspicion. "She paid you in coin? Do you have two of those handy bags of holding?"
"Perhaps," Jarlaxle shrugged, his smile edging back onto his face. "But give my contacts back in Menzoberranzan time to convert the funds into more manageable currency. It shouldn't be many more days; Kimmuriel employs accountants that are excellent at shuffling money, even bizarre amounts of copper with surface stamping."
They were finally at the point of the conversation Entreri had foreseen. Shaking his head ruefully, he began to walk away from the shrine, staying to the right of the weathered stones. "He probably ensures their loyalty with mind scans. Fine then, I see I'm not easily rid of you."
He heard the pleasant chuckle and the obvious clunk of hard boot heels behind him as Jarlaxle followed. The mercenary caught up easily, placing the cup into the black velvet bag as they walked down to the soupy swamp water.
"Are we returning to Iljak?" Jarlaxle inquired when Entreri stepped into the dark water at the base of the hill.
"That's my plan," the assassin replied. "Do you have a better idea?"
"I always have better ideas, Artemis," Jarlaxle grinned. "But this time, I yield to your direction."
"Your best idea yet."
The dark elf laughed freely, but did not reply. He would never admit it, but regaining what passed for normal between them was pleasantly comfortable. He had no illusions that he would continue to get on the assassin's nerves, for that was half the fun of their friendship. Sacrificing a few secrets seemed a reasonable price to pay to keep it.
Since a boy of fourteen meager years, Entreri never hesitated to murder those who dared betray him, whether through premeditation or accident. He recognized the change, but did not dwell on it; Vritra had disturbed too many buried things for him to make immediate sense of his feelings or motivations. More shocking than a decision to overlook Jarlaxle's treachery was the half-decided notion to think about addressing the disturbing weaknesses the hideous creature had used against him.
Not long before they had arrived in Chondath, Jarlaxle had accused the assassin of personal growth. He supposed it was true enough, but now it was mutual.
---
Deep within the slick confines of warm, pulsing flesh, he joined the entity that stared eternally over his shoulder as it started the imagery again. The dream began with a scene of a woman limned in death and an embryo ensconced within a rich bed of blood.
He knew what was coming; an indeterminate amount of time over which the embryo would grow and eventually come into a surprising world. He knew the babe, the boy, and the man. Whenever he looked into a reflective surface, there would be bright blue eyes staring back, quite unlike the glazed amber eye that gazed with him.
When the familiar sights were too much for him, his eyes opened onto the cavernous scene of flesh; just like the inside of a gigantic dog's stomach. Saliva dripped in a long strong stream from his chin when he lifted it off his chest. Below his stomach, he saw his body sheathed to his naked hips in foreign tissue. To his right, his arm was bicep-deep in more pink flesh. On his left tendrils vaguely reminiscent of animate intestines dove in and out of raw muscles that hung loosely from what remained of his shoulder.
He had dreamt of a lost arm, but he recalled losing more than what was hanging from his shoulder. Was the dream, then, the reality? Or could fantasies wound?
An absent smile tasted like mucus, but that wasn't unfamiliar. A fleshy coil came up to feel the contours of hard teeth. When his lips covered his teeth again, the appendage slid over his face and past his ear to grasp and gently pull at long strands of dark hair. Viscous liquid trailed from each point referenced.
"This is not my mother's womb. These dreams are the life I have lived."
The man found it comforting to know that he had once existed. Perhaps he would exist again after observing his life another thousand times. It would be a long wait, but he was as patient as the entity that held him.
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