Neverwinter

10

An uneasy Herzgo Alegni paced around a dark thicket in Neverwinter Wood. He knew another Netherese lord had come through the shadows. He could feel the presence. And the sickly sensation accompanying that feeling gave him a good indication of who it might be.

He was hardly surprised, but still dismayed when the withered old man made his appearance, his mottled robes masking his frame-a body that had once, long ago, rippled with the muscles of a warrior.

“Master,” Alegni said humbly, bowing his head and lowering his gaze to the ground.

“So you remember,” the old man said with a snort.

Alegni glanced up to look into the warlock’s face. How could he not remember such a thing? This man, Draygo Quick, had sponsored Herzgo Alegni into the Circle of Power, and had recommended Alegni specifically to lead the expedition in Neverwinter Wood.

As soon as he realized his faux pas, Alegni dropped his gaze back to the ground, but Draygo merely laughed.

“How many more decades will you need, my protege?” the old warlock said, and the twist of sarcasm he put on that last word made Alegni wince.

“Oh, look up at me!” Draygo Quick insisted. When Alegni complied, he continued, “I didn’t sponsor you for this task so that you would forever live in Neverwinter Wood.”

“I know, Master,” Herzgo Alegni replied. “But much has happened here, much unexpected. We were on the verge of victory-the city’s main bridge had been named in my honor.”

Draygo laughed again, a wheezing sound that showed how his years of playing with diseases and rot had exacted a toll on his lungs. “I cannot deny that the cataclysm of the volcano was unexpected.”

“Once more, I make gains in Neverwinter,” Alegni assured the warlock. “And I’ve dealt the Thayans a vicious blow.”

“I know, I know,” Draygo said dismissively. “And not so vicious. You destroyed a few zombies and murdered a few zealots, who will no doubt rise as undead to fight you once more.”

“More than that!” Alegni insisted, but when Draygo’s eyes widened at his tone, the tiefling warrior sucked in his breath.

“I know… everything,” Draygo assured him. “I’ve had my understudy spying on our enemies quite thoroughly. This sorceress, Sylora Salm, who rises against you, is no small opponent.”

“She has begun a Dread Ring,” Alegni said.

“Nearly finished one, you mean,” said Draygo. “Fortunately for us, for you, there aren’t enough living beings to feed it properly, to give it full power. But that’s not the extent of your trouble. This lich who has joined with her…?”

“We chased her from the field,” Alegni dared to interject.

Draygo nodded, though his expression showed that he didn’t appreciate being interrupted by his lesser.

“She’s formidable, and grows more so by the day,” Draygo said. “I don’t know how, but she came through the Spellplague and as her mind clears, she seems possessed of magical dweomers from both eras. Sylora Salm has undoubtedly surrounded herself with powerful allies.”

Herzgo Alegni nodded.

“Too powerful for your forces, I fear,” Draygo added.

“I’m not without resources,” Alegni insisted. “I will defeat Sylora Salm.”

Draygo was shaking his bald head with every word. “Too many Shadovar have fallen. Too many years have passed.”

Herzgo Alegni stiffened and squared his shoulders. “You would take me from the field of battle?” he asked.

“I would bolster your cause.”

“More soldiers?” Alegni asked hopefully.

Draygo shrugged as much as nodded. “A few, perhaps. More importantly, I will bolster your ranks with one who better understands the way of the sorceress.”

Alegni’s eyes widened again and he started to shake his head, though he dared not openly oppose Draygo’s words. “Him?” the tiefling angrily retorted, and stammered, because he knew who Draygo Quick had in mind and it was no one Herzgo Alegni wanted anywhere nearby.

“Him,” Draygo calmly replied. “And I need not explain to you the pain should you not properly protect this one.”

Behind Draygo, the shadows coagulated and a thin form appeared, blurred by dark mist.

“He should be with Argyle in study-that was our bargain.”

“Our bargain?” Draygo laughed. “Our bargain is whatever I tell you it is. Your title is wholly my doing, and so I can undo it. I can undo everything… with a word. You wanted him. Indeed, you went to great lengths to bring him along.”

“That was a long time ago.” The regret rang thick in Alegni’s voice.

“Yes,” Draygo replied, “a long time ago, when you thought he would be strong of arm and a great warrior. Your contempt for warlocks-”

“Not contempt,” Alegni interrupted. “Nay, I understand and appreciate the power of dark magic.”

“But you relish the power of the sword. That is your failing, I fear. Ah, but it matters not. You’re being watched very carefully now, Herzgo Alegni, and by powers who grow more impatient with you than I. Secure the whole of Neverwinter Wood, and drive out the forces of Thay.”

Alegni knew he couldn’t push further, that there was no debate to be found here, and he bowed and accepted the edict.

“He’s smart, he’s powerful, and he knows your enemy,” Draygo assured him.

“He’s… I cannot look upon him.”

“Does he disgust you? Does his infirmity insult the great Herzgo Alegni, who could surely take him in his bare hands and snap his spine in half?”

Alegni ground his teeth and tried hard to steady his breathing.

“You will consult with him. You will listen to his words of wisdom. You will complete this mission successfully and soon. We have other business to attend, and I’ll not hold my forces here in Neverwinter Wood another decade. Nor will I have Sylora’s Dread Ring come to fruition. I hold you personally responsible to stop it. Know that most of all.”

“Yes, Master.”

Draygo Quick stared at him for a bit longer then slowly turned and walked away, the shadows gathering around him as he went. Barely a few strides away, his form became so blurred as to be indistinguishable, and he was gone, melting back into the Shadowfell.

Herzgo Alegni closed his eyes and brought a hand up to rub his face, feeling weary.

“You truly can’t even bear to look upon me,” came a scratchy and whiny voice from the same area where Draygo Quick had disappeared.

Alegni didn’t have to open his eyes to know the identity of the speaker. It was Effron the Twisted, of course, Draygo Quick’s understudy, who should have been at study with Argyle-at study with Argyle forever, or at least until Herzgo Alegni was dead of old age.

“Can you not even look upon me?” the newcomer asked, and Alegni opened his eyes to regard the young tiefling, who firmed his chin and lifted it.

Alegni knew him to be more than twenty years of age, but he looked like a young teenager. Frail and thin, so very thin, his eyes, one red, one blue, barely reached the top of Alegni’s broad chest. He sported ramlike horns, like Alegni’s, lifting from mid-scalp forward then rolling around in a tight outside circle and looping back, tapering to a point that just jutted forward of the front bend. His hair was black, shot with purple, swept back and hanging scraggly around his painfully thin and twisted shoulders. This battered creature had suffered great trauma, and just looking at him now reminded Alegni that he should not be alive. His left shoulder jutted out behind him, his useless and withered left arm hung limply down his back, swaying as he walked.

He wore what seemed more like a woman’s slip than a wizard’s robe. The clingy material emphasized his bony frame, his jutting ribcage, his narrow hip bones. He carried a black bone wand in his right hand, and constantly worked it in circles around his fingers. Yes, Alegni remembered that, too.

“I do so always enjoy the look upon your face when first you glance upon me,” Effron the Twisted said. It was obviously a lie, for the young tiefling struggled to hold his composure and keep the pain from his thin face.

“I have not seen you in three years, and only a few times, and a few short times, since you were a boy,” Alegni replied.

“But you recognize me!” the emaciated warlock replied, and he jerked left-to-right so that his withered and useless arm would swing around enough for him to clap his left hand with his right.

“Don’t do that!” Herzgo Alegni warned through clenched teeth.

Effron laughed at him. It was a sad laugh.

“Go back to Draygo,” Alegni said. “I warn you, there’s no place for you here.”

“Master Draygo thinks there is.”

“He’s wrong.”

“You underestimate my powers.”

“I know your skill.”

“You underestimate my knowledge of your enemies, then,” Effron insisted. “Knowledge that will give you the victory you desire.” He widened his red eyes and gave a crooked grin, revealing a mouthful of straight white teeth that seemed so out of place with the rest of the twisted tiefling. “The victory Master Draygo orders you to complete, and in short time. Without me, that will not be achieved. Do you so loathe me that you would accept failure and the consequences of Master Draygo’s rage rather than accept my help?”

“Your help,” Alegni snorted.

“You’re not winning here,” Effron insisted.

“Perhaps you were so deep in your studies you missed my victory outside Neverwinter’s wall.”

“If you think that a victory, then you’re more in need of me than even Master Draygo believed-and he believed it quite strongly, I assure you.”

Alegni glowered at him.

“Was Sylora Salm on the field?” Effron asked.

Alegni narrowed his eyes.

“Was her champion? The elf warrioress with the mighty staff?”

“She has not been in these parts for years.”

“She returns,” Effron assured him, and Alegni couldn’t hide his surprise.

“I know your enemies,” Effron said. “I’ll help you win here, and then I’ll be gone.” He paused and considered Alegni, who could barely hide his contempt. “Which would be the more pleasing to you?”

Herzgo Alegni scowled and turned away, and Effron slumped, a bit of moisture glistening in his strange eyes.

Intrigue overwhelmed caution in Valindra’s thoughts as she glided past the umber hulks lurking at the wide entrance to the underground cavern. The young monk, Brother Anthus, who led their troop had been here before, several times, and yet his skittishness couldn’t be denied. His breathing was so labored that Valindra expected him to topple over into unconsciousness.

And the lich certainly understood why.

Valindra didn’t breathe, of course, but no matter, for this spectacle of power-a dozen mighty umber hulks lined up in perfect order and discipline-would have intrigued her in life as much as now. With that thought, the lich looked to Sylora, a sorceress not so unlike herself in her former life. The Thayan seemed composed enough, but surely there was a bit of hesitation in her step.

And why not? The cavern beyond reeked of slime and the murky pond illuminated by the underground lichen wasn’t the most inviting of sights.

Valindra, Sylora, and Brother Anthus entered, moving between the lines of umber hulk guards, the loyal and fanatical Ashmadai contingent dutifully following.

The water stirred. Brother Anthus, a scrawny young man whose brown hair was already thinning from his constant fretfulness, shifted nervously and glanced back at Sylora and Valindra.

“The Sovereignty ambassador,” he whispered reverently.

The water stirred and the ambassador’s head appeared, an oblong mound on the water, two black eyes staring at the visitors.

A second form rose up out of the water as well, walking out of the shallows nearest them. It was a man, or had been a man, naked and wearing a perfectly blank expression on his face and in his strangely distant eyes. His skin was nearly translucent and covered with a slimy, membranous substance.

“Welcome,” he said in a voice that seemed to come from somewhere else, almost as if it was being channeled through him. Behind him, the aboleth stirred, rings of water rolling out from its large form.

The ambassador’s mind slave, its servitor, then spoke the creature’s name, and it was surely unpronounceable by any of those listening-and surely would have been unpronounceable to the speaker if he was trying to form those sounds all on his own, with combinations of consonant sounds that no human or elf tongue could hope to replicate. Still, despite the stark reminder of how foreign an entity this type of creature truly was, they all, from Sylora to the Ashmadai soldiers, felt a sense of calm, of warmth, of home.

Despite her eagerness and curiosity, Valindra didn’t share that warmth, and she couldn’t help but feel a bit of disgust as the aboleth’s piscine head rose up from the water. Rounded on top, flat underneath, not unlike a bottom-feeding catfish, the large mottled head climbed up several feet. Limp whiskers, like lines of black rope hanging below, dripped fetid dark water back into the pond.

“You are the one of whom we were told,” the servitor said, aiming the words at Valindra.

“Yes,” the lich hesitantly replied.

“We sense your confusion,” said the slimy man.

He bowed, and somehow that movement made Valindra much more comfortable.

“Welcome to all of you,” the servitor went on, and he began speaking to each of them individually, conveying great knowledge of who they were and why they had come.

Valindra tried to listen at first, very curious to get as strong a read on this strange creature as she could. The ambassador was the promise to her, the potential way through the fog that continually clouded her thoughts, or twisted them in directions she never desired. But soon into the remarks by the servitor, the lich felt something else, something too personal for her to ignore.

She felt the creature-not the servitor, but the aboleth itself-probing her thoughts. She “heard” its vibrations and instinctively hesitated and threw up mental barriers. Only for a moment, though, for in truth, the lich feared her continuing mental affliction more than she feared the aboleth. She consciously let her guards down, inviting the creature in.

“Ark-lem!” she called out, her natural reaction to stressful situations. “Ark-lem! Greeth! Gree…”

She bit off the last word as a moment of clarity invaded her confused mind. And not just simple clarity of thought-Valindra had experienced those brief moments, of course, particularly on the battlefield-but clarity combined with insight and memory, and more importantly still, a true memory of the former Archmage of the Hosttower of the Arcane. Suddenly, and for the first time, Valindra remembered the disembodied spirit of Arklem Greeth after the Spellplague, and recalled the sister skull gem, Greeth’s multi-dimensional and magically multi-faceted phylactery. Greeth’s essence remained within that gem, trapped and helpless, but in there nonetheless. Valindra had only begun to understand the true powers of those wondrous gems, and in this one moment of clarity, she considered Dor’crae, who was grounded to this plane of existence through the power of her own skull gem.

She could trap Dor’crae fully with the power of her gem, as Greeth was trapped by his own phylactery. She’d understood that from the first time she’d encountered the disembodied vampire. But if that were true, might she not, therefore, find a way to loosen the other skull gem’s hold on her beloved Arklem Greeth? Free him to possess the corporeal form of another so that he wouldn’t be lost to her any longer?

Valindra’s lies to Szass Tam regarding her desires with the pit fiend had been grounded in some measure of truth, after all. She grinned then at the possibility of putting her beloved Arklem Greeth into such a magnificent corporeal form.

But where was that other gem? It had been in the room, her room, in ruined Illusk beneath Luskan! Yes, she remembered that.

Where had it gone?

A name flashed in her thoughts, that of a particularly resourceful and self-serving dark elf…

All of that flashed through Valindra’s mind in a matter of a living creature’s heartbeat, a brief moment in which all the reasoning she should have been doing for months and years now had coalesced suddenly to create a great stream of possibility.

The lich stared out at the aboleth with awe, reverence, and hope. For even as the ambassador left her, then, it left behind the unspoken promise that it could indeed help her through her plight.

The meeting lasted only a few moments longer, with the servitor assuring Sylora Salm that this was the first of what might be a fruitful alliance. That strange slimy man also took a moment to assure Brother Anthus that the road for him would be long and glorious, and he ended with a smile and knowing nod at Valindra, who had been promised, perhaps, the most of all.

When they left the aboleth’s chamber, Sylora was smiling indeed. “The people of Neverwinter will pay dearly for their partnership with the Netherese,” she said.

“Because you have struck an alliance with…” Valindra paused and tried to figure out how she might speak the aboleth’s name, but quickly gave up on that idea and simply referred to their host as “the Sovereignty ambassador.”

“Informal, but to our mutual gain,” Sylora replied.

“Truly? Then what did you offer in return?”

“To allow the Sovereignty to exist here without our interference,” Sylora replied, and she looked at Valindra curiously.

“They don’t care about our designs here,” Sylora explained. “Unlike the Netherese, our ambitions for dominance do not include dominance over the living. The Sovereignty understands that we can coexist without ever crossing paths, they in the land of the living, us in the realm of the dead. Our friend, Brother Anthus, did well in preparing them for our visit.”

The young monk bowed stiffly and uncomfortably, as was his wont.

“An alliance of convenience,” said Valindra. “My favorite kind.”

“You will meet with the ambassador again. He… it, told me as much,” Anthus remarked.

Valindra nodded and smiled, her eyes flickering with hope.

“And you concur with the… speaker?” Sylora asked.

“He’s the ambassador’s servitor,” Brother Anthus explained. “Anything he says comes straight from the aboleth.”

“He assured me that the aboleth would help me elevate Jestry to become my champion,” Sylora reminded them.

“Then rest assured that it will be a promise fulfilled,” Brother Anthus replied without the slightest hesitation.

Valindra started cackling then with laughter. “It shall be so,” she said in her own voice, between giggles, and she stared long and hard at Anthus.

“Indeed, you are quite the proponent of our new friend,” Sylora remarked.

“You don’t have a spy in your midst,” Brother Anthus assured them. “There would be no point, since the Sovereignty can scour our very thoughts. Why waste time and effort and risk discovery with such subterfuge when the ambassador can go straight to the source… at will?”

“Who is that?” Barrabus the Gray asked Herzgo Alegni when he caught up to the tiefling outside Alegni’s tent. Not far away, the twisted newcomer lurked around a copse of trees, fiddling his fingers in apparent spellcasting practice.

“No one of any concern to you,” Alegni answered, his voice rough-edged and clearly filled with aggravation.

“Good. I detest wizards.”

“Warlock,” Alegni corrected.

“Even worse,” said Barrabus, taking no pains to hide the utter contempt in his voice.

He noted that his response brought a strange look to Herzgo Alegni’s face, as if the tiefling was suddenly pondering something in a different light.

“No,” Alegni said, and his smile unsettled Barrabus. “Perhaps I spoke too hastily.”

“What does that mean?”

Alegni ignored him and walked past him. “Effron!” he called out to the warlock.

The young tiefling looked over, then began shambling awkwardly his way.

Barrabus couldn’t hide his disgust at the infirm being. “Shall I kill him and end his misery?” he asked, in jest of course, but the angry glare from Alegni, a flash of pure outrage beyond anything Barrabus had ever seen from the tiefling-and he’d seen, and evoked, more than his share of Alegni’s unrelenting anger!-told him he’d hit a peculiar nerve with his off-hand comment.

“Effron,” Alegni said when the warlock approached, “this is Barrabus, your new partner.”

“You can’t be serious,” Barrabus said.

“Oh, but I am.”

“He’s a child.”

“You’re an old human,” Effron countered.

“One to learn from the other, then,” said Alegni, clearly pleased with himself. “I expect that your respective skills will complement each other.” He turned to Barrabus. “Perhaps you will gain an appreciation of magic.”

“Only if it twists over itself and destroys its caster,” Barrabus muttered.

“And you,” Alegni continued, addressing Effron, “will perhaps come to understand the true power of the sword, the nobility and courage of he who confronts his enemies in mortal melee.”

“I understand the value of fodder,” Effron replied, turning a narrow-eyed stare at Barrabus, and only then did Barrabus notice the young tiefling’s weird eyes: one red, one blue.

“And woe to either of you if the other is killed,” Alegni finished. “Now be gone, the two of you. Find your place together and do not disappoint me.”

He turned on his heel and headed back to his tent. Barrabus glared at him, emanating hate with every step. When Alegni reached the tent flap, Barrabus glanced over at his new partner, and realized that this warlock, Effron, watched Alegni with equal consternation.

Perhaps they had a bit of common ground after all, Barrabus thought.

Sylora continued to stare at the surprising Brother Anthus for just a few moments longer then finally relaxed in acceptance at the undeniable truth of the young monk’s reasoning. Why would the Sovereignty need any spies? Sylora had witnessed telepathy often in her time beside Szass Tam, of course, and, since she often dealt with the undead, including powerful liches and vampires, she knew the dangers and powers of possession as well. But she’d never seen such a display of psionic strength to equal that single example offered by the aboleth ambassador and its servitor. The aboleth could do more than impart its thoughts to her through its slave, and relay back her responses with perfect translation.

She, too, had felt an intrusion in their time in the cavern, very brief, a mere flicker of invasion, hardly more than an introduction. But in that mere heartbeat of intrusion, the aboleth had stripped her emotionally naked. Sylora hadn’t tried to deceive the ambassador because she’d known from the instant she felt the intrusion that there was no way she could possibly do so.

She’d heard the rumors of the power of aboleths-the mighty umber hulks obediently lining the walls only served as a reminder to the creature’s ability to dominate-and now that she considered it, Sylora was relieved that she’d gotten out of that chamber without being enslaved.

She had no intention of returning to the underground pond and its otherworldly inhabitant. She looked at Valindra.

“Yes, Sylora, I’ll serve as your ambassador to the Sovereignty,” the lich said, as if reading her every thought.

Perhaps she was, Sylora feared. Perhaps the ambassador was even then scouring her mind, through Valindra’s eyes.

It occurred to Sylora Salm then that the sooner she completed the Dread Ring and moved on to a different mission in a far different location, the better off she would be.

“When you return to the cavern, take Jestry with you,” Sylora said.

Valindra’s laugh caught her off guard. “Your plaything is strong of body, but not of mind,” the lich explained. “He will likely be overwhelmed by the wondrous ambassador.”

“In that instance, he’s no use to me anyway,” Sylora replied. “Dahlia will soon return to Neverwinter, I am informed. I do not wish to waste my energies upon her. Jestry will be recreated to defeat her. The ring is the first piece only-now I need that which Arunika promised me.”

Valindra offered a bow in response, an awkward, stiff movement that created more than a bit of crackling noise in her dry skin.