Lolth's Warrior: A Novel by Salvatore R A

Author:Salvatore, R A [Salvatore, R A]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9798212694056
Amazon: B0C5H7S6GR
Goodreads: 156736175
Publisher: HarperCollins B and Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2023-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

Braelin tried to call upon his many years of training, looking for some way to strike back there and then. He knew that his situation would not likely improve and that any chance he might have of escape would have to be now, before they got one of his wrists chained.

He had practiced a clever move that might steal the sword of the man chaining him, and a quick trip would leave that man stumbling, giving him a free lane to the second guard, who was still over at the play area torturing a prisoner.

A clever move, but one not possible in his current state. His tormentors had handled him perfectly, those snake-headed scourges filling him with poison that made his arms seem as if wrapped in a weighty metal. He couldn’t move fast enough.

He thought to try anyway—perhaps a quick death would be the best he could hope for.

But no, he couldn’t bring himself to do it, couldn’t bring himself to abandon all hope, however logical that course seemed. He needed to live, to help Azleah, who was in dire trouble.

Or perhaps she wasn’t, and that made him angry and fearful in an entirely different way.

He didn’t want to die not knowing the truth, as much as he feared it.

“I will stay alive for her,” he heard himself whisper as the bracelet clicked shut about his wrist.

“For who?” the guard asked him, then slapped him when he didn’t immediately answer.

“For Lolth,” Braelin lied. “She knows the truth and will not be pleased—”

He ended with a grunt as the guard kneed him in the gut. “Matron Zhindia is Lolth’s voice in Menzoberranzan, heretic,” he said. “You would do well to remember that.”

“For the short time you have left to live,” said the man out beyond the cell door.

“Don’t worry about the hardness of the floor,” the first added, slugging him across the face and stepping back. “You will fill it thick with your fresh, soft offal soon enough.”

Braelin slumped to the floor, his arm stretching up above him. He watched the guard close the door and paid attention as the key went into the lock. He listened carefully, trying to determine how many tumblers the lock had.

He could not begin to decipher it, and even if he had, he could only hope to reach the door with one hand, and that just barely. He’d never be able to pick any but the most basic of locks in that position.

And he doubted that House Melarn, so practiced with prisoners, would use a basic lock. The one on the door, at least, was a keyhole. The one holding his wrist was magical, attuned to a metal bar the guard had used to secure it—and one needed to open it, likely. There was nothing on this smooth bracelet to pick.

He was caught and he was doomed, he knew, unless Jarlaxle or someone else—perhaps Azleah, he dared to hope, for it was too much for him to bear in that dark moment to think that this woman he loved had betrayed him—found some way to free him.

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