Promise of the Witch-King (Forgotten Realms: The Sellswords, Book 2) (Bk. 2)
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The book was hidden well.
It’s pages promised the power of the Witch-King himself.
And now that it’s been found, even the fact that it kills anyone foolish enough to crack its cover won’t stop people from fighting over it.
Welcome to the Bloodstone Lands!
Human assassin Artemis Entreri and his dark elf companion Jarlaxle have come to the demon-haunted wastelands of the frozen north at the request of their dragon patron. It doesn’t take long for them to find themselves caught in the middle of a struggle between powerful forces that would like nothing more than to see them both dead . . . or worse.
But Entreri and Jarlaxle aren’t just any wandering sellswords, and the ancient evils and bitter blood-feuds of the wild Bloodstone Lands may have finally met their match.
that pair.” “You seem pleased by it all.” “The easiest road to gaining control is one walked beside those who currently rule.” “I thought it was Jarlaxle who was always in control,” Entreri remarked, and his voice took a sudden sharp edge to it. The drow looked at him curiously, catching that razor line. “Even when he should not be in control,” the assassin went on. “Even in those instances when he is taking control of something that does not concern him.” “When did you take to speaking in
concealed item, whatever it might be.” Arrayan pulled her hand free of his grasp, started to reach for the book, but changed her mind and crossed both of her hands in her lap. She sat alternately staring at the tome and at her uncle. “It will certainly be trapped,” Wingham said. “Though I have been able to find none—and not for lack of trying!” “I was told that you only recently found it,” said Arrayan. “Months ago,” replied Wingham. “I spoke of it to no one until I had exhausted all of my
biting. Entreri shouted out, and the horses snorted and bucked in terror and swerved to the right, moving up along the uneven and rising foothill. “Hold them!” Jarlaxle cried, grabbing at the reigns. The wagon jolted hard, its rear wheel clipping a stone and diving into a deep rut. The horse team broke free, pulling the harness from the frame and taking both Jarlaxle and Entreri with them—for the moment at least. Both kept their sensibilities enough to let go as they came forward from the
stand. He tried to digest Nyungy’s words and reasoning, looking for some flaw, for some sliver of hope. He instinctively put his arm out to block the old half-orc, but Nyungy moved with a purpose that he had not known in many, many years. He brushed by Wingham and into the bedroom and bade Olgerkhan to stand aside. The large half-orc did just that, leaving the way open to Arrayan, who was resting back with her eyes closed and her breathing shallow. Nyungy knew much of the world around
into it were translations of life energy, drawn from an outside source. That energy had fueled the construction, served as the living source of power animating the undead, caused the gargoyles to regenerate on their perches, and brought life to the golems. Canthan could hardly draw a breath. The sheer power of the translation overwhelmed him. For some two decades, the wizards of the Bloodstone Lands considered Zhengyi’s lichdom, his cheating of death itself, to be his greatest accomplishment,