The Last Threshold

He popped the cork off the jug and stepped back as smoke began to pour forth, filling the area and obscuring his vision. His first indication that his powerful brother had succeeded was the sound of jostling, as Entreri and Dahlia, flesh once more, stumbled and tumbled, trying to extract themselves from the tangle.

Entreri cried out, “No!” and Dahlia merely cried out, and from the other side, the monk leaped into view, landing in a defensive crouch, one arm up to shield his eyes, the other cocked to strike.

“Be at ease, my friends,” Jarlaxle said, stepping forward and scooping up the jug as the fog began to dissipate. “The battle is won.”

“You!” Entreri cried, clearly horrified and outraged, and launched himself at Jarlaxle.

“Artemis!” Dahlia interrupted, and interrupted, too, Entreri’s charge, blocking his way.

“You are quite welcome,” Jarlaxle said dryly.

“Who are you?” Dahlia demanded.

“Jarlaxle!” Entreri answered before the drow could.

“At your service,” Jarlaxle agreed, sweeping low in a bow. “Indeed, already at your service,” he added, and he snapped his finger, breaking another magical ceramic torch. He dropped it to the floor as it flared to life, revealing the stuck medusa clearly to the others. Still she struggled against the stone buttress, one menacing snake coiled atop her goo-covered head.

“You would ask for gratitude,” Entreri spat at him.

“Call us even, then,” Jarlaxle replied. “Or leave our squabble for another time and place, when we are safely away from Lord Draygo and his minions.”

Dahlia looked back at him, clearly alarmed, as did Afafrenfere.

“Come,” Jarlaxle bade them. “It is time to go. You have been here a long time.”

“How is this possible?” Dahlia asked, glancing all around at the unfamiliar catacomb. “We were in the room, the checkerboard floor. Drizzt and Effron fell—”

“They are well,” Jarlaxle assured her. “They have already escaped back to Luskan.”

“How long?” Afafrenfere asked.

“The three of you have served as decorations for Castle Draygo for many months,” Jarlaxle explained. “For more than a year. It is the spring of 1466 on Toril.”

Three stunned expressions came back at him, for even Entreri seemed sobered by the news.

“Quickly,” Jarlaxle bade them. “Before the medusa wriggles free, or Lord Draygo finds us.” He started away at a brisk clip, the other three falling in line.

Afafrenfere and Dahlia both gasped when they came back into the checkerboard entry hall, to see a tower construct blocking the far wall, but loudest of all, and most satisfying to Jarlaxle by far, was the resigned sigh offered by Artemis Entreri, who knew Jarlaxle well enough to not need any detailed explanations.

“Inside you go,” Jarlaxle explained, stepping aside and motioning to the tower door and a drow soldier standing guard. “He will show you to the gate, and the gate will show you to Luskan.”

“Ambergris!” Afafrenfere said. “I will not leave without her!”

“Your gallant dwarf friend was the one who led me here, of course,” Jarlaxle replied.

“Effron and Drizzt?” Dahlia demanded.

“Likely with Ambergris by now, and yes, back in the City of Sails. Now, be gone, I beg.”

Afafrenfere and Dahlia both looked to Entreri.

“Trust him,” the assassin admitted. “For what choice do we have? And indeed,” he added, staring hard at the most-hated Jarlaxle, “only because we have no other choice.”

The monk and Dahlia started for the tower, but Entreri held back, and paced to stand right before Jarlaxle. “I have not forgotten what you did to me,” he said. “Nor the years of torment I suffered because of your cowardice.”

“There is more to the story,” Jarlaxle assured him. “Someday, perhaps, you will hear the tale in full.”

“I doubt that,” Entreri replied with a snarl and he started after his companions. He glanced back a couple of times, but seemed more to be watching out warily for Jarlaxle, as if expecting the drow to stab him in the back—literally this time.

Jarlaxle said no more and just let him go. He had hoped that his daring, and expensive, rescue might put him on even footing with the man once more, but he had always known that hope to be rooted more in his heart than in his reason.

Artemis Entreri had been tortured for decades as Herzgo Alegni’s slave, and Jarlaxle had little argument against the truth that much of Entreri’s suffering had been his fault.

Artemis Entreri was not a forgiving man.

A signal flash in the tower’s second floor showed Jarlaxle that the trio and the remaining guards had gone through the magical portal back to Toril.

With a quick chant, the drow dismissed the tower, which reverted to a mere cube on the floor, and more than a bit of Castle Draygo rained down from above as the intervening structure disappeared. The room’s grand balcony crashed down in ruins. When the rumbling ended, Jarlaxle realized that he was not alone, and indeed it was Kimmuriel who walked in from the castle’s far wing to scoop up Gromph’s toy.

“Are you quite finished?” Kimmuriel asked with rare sarcasm, tossing the cube to Jarlaxle.

“You have brought Lord Draygo to an understanding?”

“He desperately desires the answers that I am uncovering in my commune with the illithids,” Kimmuriel explained.

“And you are willing to supply those answers?”

“In the tumult of coming days, we will find a valuable ally in Lord Draygo Quick, and in his peers.”

Jarlaxle looked around at the ruined entry hall and laughed at the absurdity.

“Allies, then,” he said with a snicker. “Now pray open a gate that I might be out of this place.”

“Indeed, but to Baldur’s Gate and not to Luskan.”

Jarlaxle looked at him curiously.

“Your role in this play is ended, my friend,” Kimmuriel explained.

“Powerful entities seek Drizzt—”

“You need not remind me, but that is a worry for others of Bregan D’aerthe and not for Jarlaxle.”

“Athrogate is in Luskan,” Jarlaxle argued.

“I will return him to your side in short order.”

Jarlaxle eyed his companion sternly, and even entertained a thought of betraying Kimmuriel here. It passed quickly, though, as Jarlaxle considered Entreri’s reaction to him.

Perhaps it would be better Kimmuriel’s way.

Chapter 25: The Journey Home

ERE YE GO, ELF,” ATHROGATE SAID TO DRIZZT AS THEY WALKED THE STREETS of Luskan. He handed over a folded cloak, which Drizzt immediately identified as a drow piwafwi, a most useful garment for concealment and protection. “Jarlaxle telled me to give it to ye, and to tell ye to use it.”

“Use it?”

“Aye,” Athrogate said. “Ye got some powerful enemies huntin’ ye, I’m hearin’. So use it, and get yerself long gone from Luskan in short order.”

Drizzt stopped and turned to regard the dwarf directly. By his side, Effron, too, paused at that news.

“Where?” Effron asked.

Athrogate shrugged. “Back to Mithral Hall, mayhaps?”

Effron looked to Drizzt.

“Jarlaxle thinks I … we, should be gone from Luskan?” Drizzt asked the dwarf.

“Good advice,” Athrogate replied. “Ye met some drow in Gauntlgrym, and them drow’ve figured out who ye be.”

Drizzt sucked in his breath. “House Baenre,” he muttered.

“What does it mean?” Effron asked.

“It means that you and I should part ways here, for your own sake,” said Drizzt.

“Nah,” Athrogate interjected. “They’re knowin’ yer friends, and they’ll be findin’ yer friends if not yerself. Jarlaxle tells me to tell ye to stick together, all of ye.” As he finished, he nodded his hairy chin beyond Drizzt, who turned around to see Ambergris bounding toward him, her whole face smiling. She rushed up and threw a great hug over Drizzt, then gave one to Effron as well.

Then she embraced Athrogate, and it was apparent to the other two that these two had come to know each other quite well, and quite intimately. They broke the hug and shared a tremendous kiss, all sloppy and loud, full of fun and full of lust, as only dwarves could do.

“Ye got the caravan schedules?” Athrogate asked when they broke the embrace.

“Aye, north, south, and east, and a boat or two putting out soon enough,” Ambergris replied, looking to her two returned friends as she spoke.

“A boat might be a fine choice,” Athrogate offered with a shrug.

But Drizzt shook his head. “Caravans north?” he asked Ambergris, then added, “Icewind Dale?”

“Aye,” Ambergris said, “that’d be the place north the drivers been speakin’ of.”

Drizzt looked to Athrogate. “Jarlaxle is sure of this pursuit?”

“Get ye gone, elf,” the dwarf warned.

Drizzt nodded and tried to make sense of these sudden changes that had found him so unexpectedly. He had resigned himself to a life as Draygo Quick’s prisoner, and likely to die there in the Shadowfell, in the room that had become his own world. And now he was free, and Guenhwyvar was returned to him.

But was he really free? House Baenre might soon make him wish that he was back in Draygo Quick’s custody!

“Icewind Dale,” he decided, for somehow it seemed the right choice to him, the place where he belonged. Few knew the ways of that tundra land better than Drizzt Do’Urden, though he hadn’t been there for any length of time in a century and more. But yes, Icewind Dale. He felt a twinge of nostalgia at the thought, and felt at that moment as if he were going home.

Though Drizzt knew in his heart that no place without Catti-brie, Bruenor, Regis, and Wulfgar could ever truly be his home.

“Good ’nough, then,” said Ambergris. “Wagons for Icewind Dale rolling with the dawn, and I’m thinkin’ they’ll be glad to take along the four o’ us for guarding.”

“The three of ye,” Athrogate corrected. “I got me duties here in Luskan. But aye, they’ll take ye, and they’ll be glad of it.” He reached into a side pocket of his vest and produced several parchments, then riffled through them and handed the appropriate writ to Drizzt. “Ship Kurth’s recommending ye,” he explained with a wink. “Whether ye take a boat or a wagon, we got yer imprimatur. Now put on yer durned cloak and get ye gone!”

There really was little more to say, Drizzt realized. “Extend my gratitude to Jarlaxle,” he told the dwarf. “I had surrendered hope and he gave it back to me, and that is no small thing. Tell him that I hope our paths cross again, and not too many tendays from now. I would hear the tale of how you both survived the fall in Gauntlgrym, and I am confident that Jarlaxle has a hundred more tales to tell me of your exploits since that long-ago day.”

“A hunnerd?” Athrogate said incredulously. “Nah, elf, a thousand! A thousand thousand, I tell ye! Bwahahaha!”