The Last Threshold (Neverwinter #4)(125)

One of the snakes wriggled free of the goo, waving at Jarlaxle menacingly, though the medusa was too far away for it to strike at him.

Still, that freed serpent might guide his foe, he realized, uncertain of the relationship between a medusa and those snakes, or whether she might, perhaps, see through the creature’s eyes. So he fired another glob at her, this one capturing her midsection and pinning her back against the side of the stone archway.

He thought to go and finish her off, but held back, figuring that perhaps Lord Draygo would be more agreeable in their future encounters if he let the wretched and powerful creature live. He watched for a few more moments, until he was certain that she was truly and fully caught.

Jarlaxle turned to the statues, and quickly located the third, that of Afafrenfere, not so far away. From another of his many pouches, the drow mercenary produced a large jug and set it on the floor halfway between the monk and the other two.

He took a deep breath, unsure as to whether this would work. Even Gromph, who had fashioned it for him, could offer no guarantees. And even if it did work, the archmage had warned, the conversion of flesh to stone, then back to flesh, brought with it such a tremendous shock to the body that many would not survive one or the other transmutations.

“Entreri and Dahlia,” the drow whispered to himself, trying to garner his resolve. “Hearty souls.” He looked at the monk and could only shrug, for he cared little for the stranger.

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.”