Neverwinter

12

Jelvus Grinch was not a man to shy from a challenge. He’d risen to become one of the leading voices in Neverwinter through his toughness, his courage, and his indomitable will. But he shied away now, flinching and all but covering his head with his strong arms, for the angry reaction had caught him by surprise, a complete inversion of what he’d expected. And Herzgo Alegni was not one even stout Jelvus Grinch wanted as an enemy.

Nor did the other citizen leaders of Neverwinter, all sitting behind Jelvus, as Herzgo Alegni had commanded them.

“The Walk of Barrabus?” Alegni repeated over and over again, shaking his head and moving from a helpless grin to an outraged grimace with every syllable.

“We thought it fitting,” Jelvus Grinch dared to reply.

“I think it idiotic,” Alegni snapped back.

“Barrabus the Gray’s work in the assault inspired us,” Jelvus said.

“And all of it was choreographed by… me,” said Alegni, poking his finger against his own massive chest. “Have you so soon forgotten the role I played? Go out,” he bade the man, pointing to Neverwinter’s gate. “Go among the scar of battle and view the many bodies cleaved fully in half. Only one blade on that field was mighty enough to do that, and only one arm strong enough to wield that blade.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Jelvus Grinch. “And your actions are neither unknown nor unappreciated.”

“I will find my name attached to some great structure in Neverwinter?”

“If you wish, of course. A market square, perhaps.”

“That bridge,” Alegni insisted.

“Bridge? The Walk of Barrabus?”

“Never speak that name again,” Alegni replied, calmly, too calmly, the threat obvious and undeniable. “Once it was called the Winged Wyvern Bridge, then, too briefly in the days before the cataclysm, the Herzgo Alegni Bridge.”

Jelvus Grinch’s face screwed up with surprise. Few alive knew of that brief moment of Neverwinter lore.

“Yes,” Alegni explained, “because the Lord of Neverwinter in the day of the cataclysm knew well the friendship and alliance of Herzgo Alegni, and he was so grateful for my service to his city that he changed the name of Neverwinter’s most notable and famous structure. I didn’t immediately explain this indiscretion to you. It’s a new day in Neverwinter, and so I decided to show my value to you who have come here to rebuild. Barrabus the Gray is my man, who serves at my pleasure and my suffrage. A man I can kill with merely a thought. He came to you because I sent him to you, and of no accord of his own. Do you understand that?”

Jelvus Grinch swallowed hard and nodded.

“He’s my man, not his own,” said Alegni. “If I tell him to kill himself, he will kill himself. If I tell him to kill you, you will be dead. Do you understand?”

Another hard swallow preceded the next nod.

“I command a sizable Shadovar force,” the tiefling said, lifting his gaze from poor Jelvus Grinch to address all of the gathering. “You have met our wretched enemies, these Thayans and their ghoulish minions with ghoulish designs. I alone can protect you from the withering fingers of Szass Tam, and I will do so.”

He paused and turned his glare back to Jelvus Grinch directly, and finished with a simple edict, “The Herzgo Alegni Bridge.”

“A bright day will dawn for this land in a time of darkness,” came a voice from the gathering, and all eyes turned to see a disarmingly comely woman with curly red hair and a warm and open face.

Several others whispered, “The Forest Sentinel,” with great reverence, prompting Alegni to regard this innocuous-looking woman more carefully.

“We have hoped and prayed that one would stand above, and lead us to banish the old evil and open a path to new horizons,” the woman, Arunika, went on. “Are you that one, Herzgo Alegni?”

Herzgo Alegni straightened and his massive chest swelled with confidence that he was indeed, or surely could be.

“The Herzgo Alegni Bridge!” another man from the gallery shouted, and many others chimed in their agreement.

Alegni looked to Jelvus Grinch, who eagerly nodded.

The Netherese lord paced around, basking in the glow of approval, then assured them all, “Szass Tam’s agents will be driven from this land at the end of my sword. Your city will thrive again. I’ll see to that, but on your lives, you will not forget my role.”

It started as a small clap, a single set of hands-the red-haired woman’s hands, Alegni noted, this one they had called the Forest Sentinel-then joined by a second, and within a few heartbeats, the leaders of Neverwinter called out for Herzgo Alegni with a full-throated “huzzah!”

Jestry stood in the firelit chamber, naked and sweating, covered in hot oil. He didn’t cry out in pain, for the aboleth was in his mind and wouldn’t allow him to feel that pain. The creature chased down every sensation of pain before it could come to fruition, numbing Jestry, distracting him, keeping him in a state of emptiness.

These mental bindings were much easier, after all.

Not far from Jestry, a cauldron hissed and bubbled. A pair of gray dwarves hustled around it, stoking the flames, pouring in more oil. A third dwarf slave, wearing thick gloves and carrying long tongs, scrambled up and down a small ladder near the cauldron, reaching in to pull forth the treated, leathery strips.

Whenever the dwarf caught one, he jumped down from the ladder and ran to Jestry-there was no time to tarry and let the umber hulk hide cool. He set one end of the long strip against the naked man, right where the last one had ended, and tightly wrapped it around his body, pulling hard with each turn.

The oil beneath the treated strap sizzled, Jestry’s skin bubbled and burst as he melded with the enchanted and magically treated leather.

“It will heighten his resistance to lightning energy,” the slimy servitor who stood nearby quietly whispered to Valindra, who watched with great amusement.

And turn the blades and dull the thud of Dahlia’s staff, Valindra telepathically replied. She didn’t specifically impart, but was thinking that they should do this to all of the Ashmadai.

Through his servitor, the aboleth disavowed her of that notion, filling her ear with watery whispers explaining the realities of such an unusual ceremony as this. “Five hulks must die for one human to be armored, and in any typical situation, those five would be more valuable by far. Your human champion will not live long, and will never again know a moment without great pain. Were my master to release him from possession now, the agony would kill him. He will be Sylora Salm’s champion only through his zealotry, his willingness, his happiness to die for his cause.”

“But he will hate her for this,” Valindra reasoned as the dwarf’s wrapping reached Jestry’s crotch. “For never again will he know Sylora’s touch, her kiss and her charms.” She gasped, giggled, and blurted, “He is neutered!”

“His focus is singular now,” the servitor explained. “He’s Sylora Salm’s champion and will fight for her until his death. Nothing else will matter to him.”

“How long can he live in this state?”

“A few moons, perhaps a year.”

Valindra continued to marvel at the process as she watched this Ashmadai warrior become something more, something unique and dangerous. The wrappings went tight around his belly, circling up to his chest, to his neck. She wondered about his head and face-how complete would the skin armor suit be?

The smell of burning hair as the treated umber hulk hide wrapped around him showed her, for when the slave dwarves were done, only Jestry’s eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth remained uncovered.

The servitor moved away from her, moving up to the transformed warrior, for now the aboleth had to focus completely on Jestry, she realized, had to deceive the man so that he could shrug through the agony and hold to his purpose.

One of the dwarves came up to the lich and motioned for her to leave. “Ye best go in the other cave for a bit,” he explained. “It’s to get loud in here, don’t ye doubt.”

Valindra looked at him with disdain, even disgust, but she heeded his words and glided out into the antechamber, where several other Ashmadai guards waited.

“Where is Jestry?” one woman asked.

In reply, a shriek of agony came from the other room. It went on and on, changing in tone from a high-pitched, pain-filled wail to an angry cry to a roar of utter defiance.

“What have you done to him?” another Ashmadai asked angrily.

Valindra stared at him and said nothing for many heartbeats. The zealot, for all his rage, shrank back from that withering glare.

“Would you like to learn first-hand the answer to that question?” Valindra calmly replied, and the man, for all his dedication, for all his willingness to die for his cause, shrank back even more.

After a long, long while, the screaming in the other room at last abated, and the servitor arrived at the door to inform them that the “dressing” was complete. Soon after, Jestry shambled out of the room, walking stiffly, rolling his hips to throw one leg out in front of him. His breathing came in gasps, and his eyes showed more red than white, for in his agony and screaming he’d exploded many blood vessels.

“It’s done?” Valindra asked him.

He grunted a response that sounded affirmative.

“And you are?” the lich pressed.

“Jestry, Slave of Asmodeus, Champion of Sylora Salm,” the living mummy recited.

“And you’re tasked with?”

“Killing Lady Dahlia,” came the simple response, and the man-beast paused as if considering the words, then clarified with simply, “Killing.”

Behind Valindra, that same obstinate Ashmadai sighed in apparent disapproval.

“Show me,” Valindra bade Jestry. “You claim to be a champion. I would see proof.”

Jestry tilted his head, curious.

Valindra motioned to the Ashmadai.

“He questions the judgment of Lady Sylora,” Valindra explained. She smiled widely when she saw the Ashmadai’s eyes pop open as he realized the game she was playing. “He thinks you have done her a disservice by becoming such a warrior.”

Jestry grunted and faced the Ashmadai directly.

“I don’t question Jestry!” the man pleaded. “I questioned the source of his pain-wracked-”

“He thinks you too weak to suffer the torment of the transformation,” Valindra taunted.

The man started to argue that point as well, distancing himself from any criticism of Jestry, but he needn’t have bothered, for when Valindra, the confidante of Sylora, added, “Show him,” Jestry pounced.

The Ashmadai was ready for the charge, setting his spear-staff tight on his hip to intercept the leaping Jestry-and indeed, Jestry’s chest slammed into that sharp tip full force. Against cloth armor, leather armor, even sturdy chain mail, such a defensive maneuver would have ended the fight before it began, with the spear tip plunging into the attacker’s chest. Against Jestry, though, against the umber hulk hide that had been treated by artisans and wizards alike, the spear couldn’t penetrate. The force of Jestry’s charge fully overwhelmed the strong Ashmadai, barreling him backward and to the floor.

Jestry had been a strong man before the application of his new “skin,” the strongest of the Ashmadai in Neverwinter Wood. Now he was stronger by far, and much heavier than a normal human, and he had little trouble subduing the man, using just his weight and one arm. His other hand grasped the Ashmadai’s head and yanked it to the side, pressing down on the man’s cheek.

The mummified warrior had no idea why he did what happened next. Never would he have considered such an action prior to that day.

He didn’t even realize what he’d done, hardly even heard the screams, until he was standing again, the Ashmadai thrashing on the floor in front of him, holding his ear-or at least, holding the spot where his ear had once been.

That ear was in Jestry’s mouth, and the champion chewed it, savoring the taste.

Across the way, Valindra laughed.

Jestry had been given mighty armor, and greater strength. But it was the internal gift of the aboleth ambassador, Valindra realized even if Jestry had not, that would prove the most important. For now he was something beyond a mere warrior.

Now he was without inhibition.

Now he was bound by nothing but the need to gain victory.

Now he was possessed of a hunger that could not be sated.

Now he was feral.

“I’m called Arunika,” the woman explained when she stood at Herzgo Alegni’s door.

Alegni had been granted a room at the finest inn in Neverwinter, one with a balcony that overlooked the bridge that had been named, yet again, in his honor. He wouldn’t be in the town often, perhaps, but a room, this room, would forever be waiting for him.

“They called you something else,” Alegni replied, his gaze roving up and down the human woman’s form.

“The Forest Sentinel,” she answered.

“You’re a ranger, then?”

“An observer,” she corrected.

“More than that, from what I’ve heard, for you live outside the city walls, and survive quite well, it seems.”

“I have my ways… my knowledge,” she coyly replied. “Knowledge is power, they say.”

“I recall you hinted I was the one destined to save Neverwinter.”

Arunika’s continuing smile put him strangely off balance. “I said that we hoped for one who would step forward and lead us to defeat the Thayan menace,” she corrected him. “Even with the Thayans driven from the wood, there’s no guarantee, no mention at all, that Neverwinter will be saved, is there?”

The tiefling narrowed his eyes as the woman widened her smile. Was there a hint in that knowing grin that this creature believed Alegni and his minions might subsequently destroy Neverwinter after defeating Sylora Salm?

“Are you going to invite me in?” Arunika asked.

“Why would I?”

“Would you have my words of insight and wisdom spread wide throughout Neverwinter, then, by keeping me out in the hallway?” Arunika asked innocently. “Where any passersby might overhear?”

Herzgo Alegni leaned out the doorway and glanced left and right. Then he stepped aside.

Arunika moved in comfortably, the ease in her step conveying that she was not the least bit intimidated. That struck Alegni profoundly. What young human woman wouldn’t be intimidated walking into the private den of a hulking Netherese tiefling?

“Did your ‘knowledge’ assure you that I wouldn’t hurt you?” he asked, only half joking.

“Why would I bother wondering such a thing, and why would you think to?” Arunika sat, comfortably draping her arm over the arm of a divan set near the balcony door, half turning to gain a better view of the city below. “You’re ambitious, and you desire great power.” She swung around to regard Alegni as he closed the door. “Surely that’s no secret. And you’re no fool-that much is obvious as well. You understand that knowledge is indeed power, and there’s no one who knows more of the situation in Neverwinter than I. Not even Jelvus Grinch, who often seeks my counsel.”

Herzgo Alegni spent a long while lingering by the door, looking across the room at the woman. She didn’t appear exotic in any way, hardly the look he would expect from one playing at such dangerous games. Surely she understood that Jelvus Grinch would consider her his personal trough of information, working for him above all others. How might he view her unannounced, uninvited visit to Alegni’s private room?

Did this unremarkable human female wish to get in between a possible power struggle involving Grinch and Alegni?

And if so, Alegni wondered, was her appearance here confirmation that she intended to throw in with the Netherese lord? Or was it, perhaps, a choreographed deception orchestrated by Jelvus Grinch?

Alegni approached her, his every step resonating with intimidation. “Who sent you?”

“I came of my own accord,” she replied casually, and she looked out through the glass doors once more.

“Grinch?” Alegni demanded.

When Arunika didn’t immediately reply, he grabbed her tightly by the arm, turning her around to face him, then roughly lifted her to her feet and glared down at her. The woman barely reached his mid-chest, the discrepancy in their relative sizes and strength so glaringly obvious that Arunika should have been thoroughly flustered.

But her smile appeared sincere.

“Understand this, Herzgo Alegni,” she calmly replied, “I don’t answer to Jelvus Grinch. He doesn’t tell me what to do or where to go, and he knows well not even to try. I answer to myself alone.”

“Because you use your knowledge to chart the way to the future you desire,” Alegni reasoned. He tightened his grip until the woman showed a hint of a grimace.

But she didn’t stop smiling.

“Are you a sorceress or priest, then?” Alegni demanded.

“Not the first, and certainly not the second,” she replied with a carefree laugh. “Though I admit I’m not unaware of the ways of magic. What I am,” she added as Alegni began to bend over her, “is one who understands the nature of things, the ways of people. Most of all, I observe.”

Alegni backed off a bit. “And you know more of the Neverwinter region than anyone else?” he asked, echoing her boasts.

“I do.”

“Your claims of my role here were predicated on more than observation.”

Arunika shrugged. “If the Thayans, the old evil, prove victorious, then what matter what I told Jelvus Grinch and the others?”

Now Alegni put his hands to his hips.

“If they don’t win out, then of course someone will take the lead against them,” Arunika explained. “Why not Herzgo Alegni? I see no one around more capable or prominent.”

“Are you saying you made your claim for my sake?”

“There’s more to it than that,” Arunika replied. “But it seemed prudent to bolster your cause, for your sake, as you said, but also for the benefit of Neverwinter. Our enemies are formidable.”

Herzgo Alegni really had no answer. He stepped to the side and looked out through the door to the carved image of the wyvern that marked the Herzgo Alegni Bridge.

To his surprise, Arunika rose and moved right beside him, putting her arm on the small of his back.

“What do you think of the bridge?” Alegni asked.

“It’s the most beautiful and impressive structure in Neverwinter,” she replied. “It’s hard to believe it carried any name other than your own.”

Alegni turned on the woman, towering over her.

She didn’t back away, but tilted her head back, slightly parted her lips, and closed her eyes, inviting him.

It was an invitation Herzgo Alegni did not resist.

Arunika left Alegni’s room much later that evening. She didn’t reveal her true form to the tiefling during their lovemaking.

Nor did she tell him of the Abolethic Sovereignty, or of her relationship with Sylora Salm, or a million other little details that might have given the Netherese lord pause in his decision to couple with her.

Or in his decision not to kill her.

“A new pet?” Valindra asked when she caught up to Sylora just outside the perimeter of the Dread Ring. Beside the sorceress, flipping somersaults in the air and waggling its arms stupidly, was a small imp, a bat-winged little hellion whose smile might have been meant as disarming, but seemed more of a warning, somehow.

“A messenger from Arunika,” Sylora explained. “I assume that your meeting with the Sovereignty ambassador went well.”

“You assume? Or you already know?” Valindra asked, looking to the imp, who grinned wider still, that pointy-toothed smile almost taking in its batlike ears. It flapped its leathery wings and flipped over backward, landing easily back in place.

“I’ve been told that my champion is well prepared for the trials ahead.”

Valindra nodded. “And you have heard that the ambassador plans to support our cause with a strike at Neverwinter?”

“It pleases Arunika greatly,” Sylora explained with a wry smile. “Apparently the Netherese have now claimed a leadership role in the city. They’ll fill the role as the great protectors of Neverwinter, so they say. The new citizens are even naming landmarks after them.”

Valindra smiled at the delicious irony. Right after these Netherese proclaim themselves as protectors, the city would be battered to its core.

“They will find their city is built upon less than solid ground,” Sylora said.

“Will we join in this attack?”

“Only as a diversion,” Sylora replied, “to lure the Netherese from within the city.”

She turned away from Valindra then and back to the Dread Ring. She whispered a few words, then bent low, reaching into the ashen circle. When she turned back around, she held one of the Ashmadai scepters, a spear-staff, except that this one was more black than red, coal-colored and shot through with red steaks that appeared like living veins.

“An enchanted weapon?” Valindra asked.

“It draws power from the ring,” Sylora answered.

“For your champion.”

“Of course. A little added pain for Jestry’s opponents.”

Jestry appeared, hulking toward her. He wore a cape and a kilt, but his mummy wrappings were all too clear to see. He wasn’t moving as awkwardly as before. The wrappings had melded more fully with his skin, and the tightness and stiffness of the treated hide gave way to a more normal gait. He walked right up to Sylora and stared at her, unblinking, those parts of his face that were visible betraying no emotion.

“Does it hurt?” Sylora asked him, and she sounded compassionate. Jestry shook his head.

“Do you understand how powerful you have become?” Sylora asked.

The mummified champion smiled.

“You will kill her,” Sylora assured him. “You will serve as my great champion. All will fall before us-the Netherese will be driven from the forest. Szass Tam will know of your exploits, I assure you.”

“When we are done, will you restore me?” Jestry asked, struggling with each word as if the wrappings on his face had not loosened enough for him to properly formulate the words.

“I’m told that it won’t be necessary,” Sylora reached out and gently stroked Jestry’s face. “You will grow fully into your new skin. All of the sensations will return.”

Jestry’s hand snapped up to catch Sylora by the wrist, and he held her hand against his face for a long while.

“I have another gift for you.” Sylora held up the enchanted staff-spear.

Jestry’s eyes gleamed with hunger. He let go of Sylora’s arm and stepped back, taking the weapon in both hands.

“Go and practice with it,” Sylora bade him. “Learn of its new powers.”

Jestry looked at her curiously.

“Go,” she repeated. “Valindra and I have much to discuss.”

Jestry nodded obediently, turned, and ran off.

“You know his wrappings will not become like his old skin, of course,” Valindra said when he was gone. “The process is lethal. Jestry has barely months to live, if he’s fortunate. A year or so if he’s unfortunate.”

“He will serve me well long after that,” Sylora assured her.

Valindra looked at her, then at the Dread Ring. “The scepter,” she reasoned. “You’re attuning him to be fully raised into undeath.”

Sylora looked to the forest into which Jestry had disappeared. “I already have,” she replied.

Barrabus the Gray didn’t scream out, and that was a victory. The wracking pains had him doubled over. Only his white-knuckled grip on the bridge’s railing kept him from falling onto the cobblestones and writhing uncontrollably.

“The Walk of Barrabus,” Herzgo Alegni said for the twentieth time, and he twanged his fork against the blade of Claw, heightening the sword’s punishing waves of retributive energy. The large tiefling walked over and tugged Barrabus’s hand from the railing, then threw the man to the ground.

“Crawl!” he demanded. “Crawl the length of the bridge, and perhaps I’ll rename it again-no, another one, perhaps. Yes, we’ll call it the Grovel of Barrabus. How much more fitting that will be!”

Barrabus could only look hatefully at his master, and couldn’t respond because he simply couldn’t pry his own teeth apart.

“How dare you?” Alegni asked, and he kicked Barrabus in the ribs.

The man hardly reacted to that impact, though, for the pain of the blow was nothing compared to the vibrations of that awful sword.

Alegni stepped back, sighed, and grabbed the tines of the fork, silencing it and halting the waves. The pain immediately ceased. Sweating, Barrabus crumbled lower to the bridge, gasping for breath, his face pressed against the stones.

“What am I to do with you?” Alegni said, his voice full of regret and sadness-and how Barrabus wanted to cut out his heart for that phony empathy! “I bring you glory and power, and you repay me with this treachery.”

Barrabus growled and forced himself over onto his back.

“Ah, yes, I know,” Alegni went on. “Don’t bother repeating your excuse that the citizens insisted. You knew, and you allowed it. You knew my designs on this magnificent bridge. You were the agent who first facilitated the name change I desired. No, deny not the truth. You wanted to wound me. You knew your barb wouldn’t stand, but you decided to play the game anyway.”

All signs of empathy gone, the angry tiefling kicked Barrabus hard in the ribs once more. The man grunted in reply, rolled up to his side, and curled defensively.

“Was it worth it?” Alegni asked him.

Yes, Barrabus thought.

“Was it?” Alegni asked again, and when no reply came, the tiefling turned and started away. “Come along,” he ordered coldly.

Barrabus rolled onto his back and took a few deep breaths. Then, before he could think it through-to do that would have been to warn the awful red-bladed sword-he threw himself over backward, tucking and rolling, coming to his feet and launching himself after Alegni.

He flipped his belt buckle free, the magical implement instantly transforming into a dagger, and moved to throw. He thought himself successful, thought his rash actions had eluded Claw just long enough to allow him one strike at that wretched Alegni.

But the wall of agony came on like a charging bull, stopping him in his tracks, freezing his muscles in place-and he realized he hadn’t come close to letting fly the knife.

Claw caught him, inside and out, and mocked him with its power. All strength flew from his every muscle and he simply crumpled where he stood. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t roll over, he couldn’t breathe. Nothing worked-he couldn’t even blink. It was as if all that was Barrabus mentally had been decoupled from all that was Barrabus physically.

This is death! he hoped. Oh, how he hoped.

But it wasn’t, and Barrabus gradually felt himself becoming whole again. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see Herzgo Alegni staring down at him. Before he knew what he was doing, Barrabus’s knife hand went up to hover above his own face. He felt the compulsion, and couldn’t deny it.

He brought the blade down to stab at his cheek, and when the blade slipped into his skin, he dragged it down to his chin.

Images of cutting off his fingers, his toes, his genitals, flitted through his thoughts, and he knew he couldn’t deny Alegni’s sword if it had ordered him to do any of those things.

His hand inched down toward his crotch, his bloody blade moving with purpose. He lifted his arm, blade pointed down, as if to plunge it home.

Under command of the sword, Barrabus held that humiliating and terrifying pose for many, many heartbeats.

Herzgo Alegni laughed and walked away.

The tiefling had barely gone a couple of strides when an explosion rocked Neverwinter. As the noise dissipated, cries from the wall told them that the city was once again under attack.

“Come along!” Alegni demanded.

The man pulled himself up from the ground. He felt drained, as if much of his life force had been stolen from him, and in his thoughts, he heard the voice of Herzgo Alegni’s sword, You are alive at my suffrage alone.

Barrabus instinctively countered that it was not a blessing, but a torment, but sarcasm was wasted on Claw.

He should have died many years before. He’d lived two lifetimes, but he hadn’t died. He remained vibrant, strong, and quick as ever.

The sword wouldn’t let him die. That weapon, which could steal a life force with the slightest cut, which could drive a spirit into oblivion, denying an afterlife, could reverse its murderous tendencies. He was alive at the suffrage of that sentient magical weapon.

But the cost!

He staggered along after Alegni, gradually regaining his agile gait. He caught up with the tiefling in sight of the wall, and another fiery explosion ignited just in front of that barrier, showing the dark silhouettes of ducking guardsmen.

“It would seem that our friends have returned,” Alegni muttered to Barrabus and the others who had gathered near him.

“Out by the trees!” one woman on the wall called out. “The zombies have returned!”

“Along with the lich,” said a quieter voice, and Effron appeared then as if materializing out of the shadows. “Valindra Shadowmantle,” he explained.

“How many?” Alegni asked.

“A veritable horde of the zombies,” Effron explained. “And Valindra and Sylora Salm and a handful of Ashmadai.”

“Sylora has come to face me?” Alegni grinned wickedly at that thought. “Does she really believe her magic can withstand the power of Herzgo Alegni?”

“I don’t know she knows who Herzgo Alegni is,” said Effron, drawing a scowl from the tiefling.

Alegni reached into his pouch and produced a gauntlet, black and red, and slid it onto his sword hand. This was Claw’s matching piece, designed to dull magic to protect the wielder of the powerful sword from the weapon’s telepathic intrusions. Alegni preferred not to wear it, for it dulled his mental connection with the magical Claw, and he believed that his closeness with his weapon helped to keep him alive, particularly when the dangerous Barrabus was around.

But the gauntlet also worked to minimize external magic, and the sorceress Sylora would be hard-pressed indeed to truly wound Alegni while he wore such an artifact.

The tiefling looked to Barrabus, his face showing his eagerness for battle.

“It’s a ruse,” the battered and bleeding Barrabus said.

Alegni scowled in reply.

Barrabus shook his head. “They want us to come out after them, to be sure,” he said. He called up to the wall, “Do the zombies approach?”

“At the trees!” came the shout back.

“They’re luring us out there,” Barrabus said to Alegni.

“What do we care?” the tiefling replied. “More likely, they’re trying to lure the feeble citizens of Neverwinter, who wouldn’t be able to win if not for their strong walls. Sylora Salm doesn’t understand the power that’s arrayed against her.”

Neither do you, Barrabus thought, but wisely didn’t say.

“Let’s go and slaughter some zealots,” Alegni called, and he started for the gate, Effron beside him. Barrabus and the handful of Shadovar who had accompanied them to Neverwinter followed in close order.

“Go out to the camp,” Alegni bade Effron. “Tell our warriors to come on in full. Swing them wide of Sylora’s position, so she will not escape.”

Effron nodded and melted back into the shadows.

“I do not wish to send my forces outside our walls,” Jelvus Grinch said to Alegni, hustling to catch up to the tiefling.

“No one asked you,” Alegni snapped back at him. “Stay within and cower. I’ll rid you of this menace.”

The men at the gate worked fast at Alegni’s approach, swinging one of the two doors wide, and Alegni and his entourage went through without fanfare.

“They’ll throw their magic at us all the way,” the tiefling leader explained to his forces. “Do not waver, do not falter.”

He’d barely finished speaking when the ground beneath them rolled suddenly and black tentacles sprang forth, grabbing at their ankles and legs.

Alegni swept them aside with his mighty sword. Barrabus took a different tactic and pulled forth his obsidian figurine, tossing it to the ground at his feet. The statue became a steed, a nightmare, and Barrabus wasted no time in vaulting atop the skeletal horse’s back. Knowing that Effron and the others would come in from the south, his right, Barrabus ran the nightmare off to the left in a wide circuit.

Alegni just kept walking, his foot soldiers in his wake. Claw swept aside the tentacles with ease. When eldritch missiles came soaring out of the tree line at him, the tiefling just held up his gauntleted hand and absorbed the magic with no more than a slight sting, as if he’d caught and crushed a bee.

“Come out, Sylora,” he taunted as he approached the tree line.

Instead of Sylora, Barrabus, riding his nightmare, burst out of the trees, bidding him to turn around.

Alegni looked at his slave curiously for just a moment then realized Barrabus had figured something out.

A ruse.

The umber hulks came through the dirt and cobblestones of Neverwinter as easily as if they moved through water. One burst through the floor of a home, its shoulders pressed tightly against the low ceiling.

Both the husband and wife in that home already had their weapons in hand, ready to go out and join in the defense of the town. To their credit, both attacked the umber hulk before it even registered their presence.

A sword banged against the creature’s side, an axe dived into its shoulder, actually cutting through the thick hide just a bit.

For a moment, despite their shock at finding a ten-foot tall, monstrous creature in the middle of their home, the settlers dared believe that the close quarters would work in their favor against the lumbering beast.

But the umber hulk swung its powerful arms, filling the room with its sweeping bulk. It drove the husband and wife aside, tossing them like dry leaves in an autumn wind, and worse, when those mighty arms connected, they broke the house’s stone walls apart.

The ceiling came down, and the collapse didn’t bother the umber hulk at all.

It had the couple scrambling, though, blocks of stone and wooden beams tumbling all around, and in their distraction, the beast caught them and crushed them.

Out into the city it went, where three of its brethren were already causing havoc. Screams echoed from all around as the hardy settlers tried to organize some defense against the hulking beasts. Several men and women did manage to come at one of the umber hulks in a coordinated manner, and managed some stabs and chops at the brute.

But the umber hulk broke apart the nearest building, hurling heavy stones at its adversaries, destroying their coordinated defense. Cleverly, the beast focused its throws, driving one woman out to the side, too far from her comrades.

A giant claw caught her and lifted her into the air, crushing her chest then sending her flying, a human missile, right into the next defender in line. That man tried to catch her instead of simply dodging, and went tumbling to the ground with her. Only then did he realize his efforts were all for naught. The woman was already dead, her chest thoroughly crushed.

He pushed her aside and scrambled to his feet, just in time to meet the attack of a second umber hulk.

Their line defeated and depleted, the defenders were washed away.

Barrabus guided his nightmare at a full gallop back through Neverwinter’s gate, carrying Herzgo Alegni behind him. They quickly recognized the threat that had materialized within the walls, and Barrabus sent his mount charging to the nearest area of battle, and the obvious, huge, monstrous centerpiece of that fight.

Following Alegni’s command, Barrabus brought the nightmare right past an umber hulk, just a few feet to the side-enough for Alegni to leap from the mount, fall into a forward roll, and come around to his feet with a mighty sidelong strike of Claw.

The umber hulk, which took the blows of other defenders with hardly a shrug, didn’t even try to block.

But Alegni wasn’t any defender, and Claw wasn’t any ordinary weapon. Alegni’s strike drove hard into the side of the beast, crushing and tearing through skin and bone, and the beast let out a mighty roar of pain, surprise, and rage.

Alegni’s weapon grabbed its victim even more profoundly, the devious magic of Claw biting at the very life force of the umber hulk.

Horrified, the creature thrashed and swung, and Alegni agilely leaped back, taking his sword with him and bringing a moment of relief to the beast. Just a moment, however, for Alegni leaped right back in, thrusting his sword behind a swinging arm, plunging the blade squarely into the umber hulk’s chest. Alegni twisted it around and the sword attacked the beast’s life force with renewed hunger.

In drove Alegni, ignoring the beast’s arms as they swung back at him, accepting the heavy blows while he reached for the umber hulk’s heart.

A moment later, the umber hulk stood transfixed, its arms out wide, its great mandibles clacking together as if trying to form some sounds to explain this unimaginable turn of events. Soon the whole of the great beast trembled and shook violently in its helpless death throes.

Herzgo Alegni went hunting for another victim.

Barrabus the Gray was not suited to fighting umber hulks. He knew that, of course. He depended upon speed and precision, measuring the reactions of his enemies to afford him openings through which he could deliver quick, killing blows.

Umber hulks, however, didn’t bother reacting to the strikes of a sword and dirk. The misdirection of a man like Barrabus wouldn’t turn a monstrous umber hulk.

Still, when he saw one of the monsters wreaking destruction at one square, scattering villagers and tearing apart the buildings, Barrabus found himself charging in at the beast. He rolled off the back of the nightmare as it neared, landing easily and running along behind the magical horse.

That steed charged right into the hulk, slamming the monster hard and knocking it back a stride. The nightmare reared and kicked its fiery hooves into the beast’s face, and the umber hulk clawed and swatted with abandon, finally driving the hellish horse aside.

Just in time to catch a flying Barrabus.

The man leaped up at the beast, stabbing hard with his sword and scoring a hit right between the umber hulk’s snapping mandibles. Barrabus fell short of the monster, as he’d planned, and darted out to the left, stabbing the creature hard in the side with his dirk as he passed.

The umber hulk swung around, batting at him, but never quite catching up to him. Its heavy arm connected on the nearest building, smashing the wall and sending chunks of stone tumbling.

Barrabus avoided them and used the tumult to run back out the other way, where he launched a flurry of strikes against the distracted brute’s back. He hit the umber hulk a dozen times, but could score only minimal damage against the thick hide and sheer bulk of his enemy.

More importantly, though, Barrabus had made the creature furious and it pursued him with a singular purpose. He wouldn’t allow it to catch up to him to join in battle once more, however, for when those settlers nearby saw that one of their comrades had the umber hulk’s full attention, and noted, too, that it was Barrabus, their hero from the previous battle, they found their courage and came on in support.

Like a hive of stinging bees, they nipped and stabbed at the umber hulk, over and over again. Following Barrabus’s lead, and heeding his commands, they stayed ahead of the monster’s increasingly desperate lunges and swings.

On and on it went, and finally, the umber hulk dived down to the ground and burrowed away, digging deep through the cobblestones and into the soft earth below. Barrabus actually went into the hole after it, scoring many more vicious stabs at the retreating monster’s feet and legs.

When finally he simply let the umber hulk burrow away, leaving him in a trench a dozen feet below the city square above, Barrabus blinked many times and wondered what in the Nine Hells he might have been thinking.

As he ascended, he did so to a growing chorus of elation, and indeed, when he exited, he found that some of the folk were cheering him for his actions in the square.

Mostly, however, they cheered for Herzgo Alegni, and despite Barrabus’s hatred for the tiefling, he couldn’t honestly claim that those cheers were misplaced. Not at that moment, at least.

Alegni fought a second umber hulk, his mighty sword hacking at the beast with abandon. Its skin hanging in torn flaps, the umber hulk tried to keep up with the relentless cuts, tried to turn around in pace with the surprisingly quick Alegni.

But the tiefling had gained an advantage and he would not surrender it. Claw, that terrible sword, inflicted heavy damage with each strike, damage that went beyond the torn skin and muscle, broken bones and spurting blood, damage that reached right to the heart of the umber hulk’s existence, the core of its soul.

The creature turned, and turned some more, and turned yet more as it screwed itself down to the ground, where Alegni finished it off with a great overhead chop, splitting the beast’s skull in half.

“You should have finished the task with the cataclysm,” Szass Tam scolded Sylora. The sorceress had just informed him of the new information Arunika had supplied regarding the heroic exploits of Herzgo Alegni. “He gains strength and alliance with the villagers.”

“I struck at them hard,” Sylora countered.

“You?”

“The Abolethic Sovereignty-and I count their alliance as my victory.”

“Fair enough,” Szass Tam admitted, but he chucked his disgust with every word. “Some villagers were killed, but once again, the Netherese became their heroes, did they not?”

Sylora lowered her eyes. She couldn’t answer that.

“It was a good attack,” Szass Tam unexpectedly concluded. “Many of the villagers were killed-I sense their souls feeding the Dread Ring now. And not one of our zealots was slain, not a zombie destroyed. Now we must convince the settlers that the reason you attack them is their alliance with the Netherese.”

“Arunika,” Sylora reasoned, and Szass Tam nodded.

“She can be quite persuasive, I’m told,” the archlich said.

“I need more Ashmadai,” Sylora dared to remark, and to her surprise, Szass Tam nodded once more.

Sylora breathed easier, her mind already concocting the lies she would feed through Arunika, already thinking of new ways to wound the settlers, to turn them against the Netherese.

But her relief proved short lived.

“You took from the Dread Ring,” Szass Tam stated.

Sylora looked up at him with surprise.

“I feel its power diminished, stolen by you.”

The sorceress shook her head, trying to make sense of it, for Szass Tam’s tone had taken a darker turn-and that usually meant someone was going to die, horribly.

“I didn’t…”

“Into a scepter, perhaps?” Szass Tam remarked, and Sylora understood then.

“J-Jestry’s weapon… yes,” she stammered.

“You took from the Dread Ring.”

“I asked the Dread Ring for strength,” Sylora protested.

“Strength it provided, to its own detriment.”

“Master, I…” Sylora started, but stuttered and shook her head, trying to figure a way out of this.

“Jestry’s weapon, you say?” Szass Tam prompted her, and she jumped on that sliver of hope.

“My champion, yes! He is being prepared to-”

“ Your champion?” the archlich remarked.

“ Our champion,” Sylora corrected. “Your champion. Jestry of the Ashmadai. I’ve strengthened him. With the help of the aboleth ambassador, I’ve molded him into a warrior above all other Ashmadai, a warrior worthy of Szass Tam.”

“You stole from the Dread Ring.”

“I strengthened his scepter, creating a weapon truly fitting a champion of Szass Tam,” Sylora explained. “He will face Dahlia.”

“Dahlia?”

“She returns, and brings with her a powerful ally.” Sylora swallowed hard and considered whether or not she should complete her tale, as the spirit of Dor’crae had relayed it through Valindra Shadowmantle. But she realized by Szass Tam’s posture that she had no choice but to reveal it all.

“Hadencourt is gone,” she explained. “Dahlia and her drow companion destroyed him and his devil bodyguards. She knew he was Ashmadai. She knew he was allied with me. She’s fully a traitor now, and intends to defeat me and our mission here, and so, yes, Master, I dipped Jestry’s weapon in the Dread Ring and prayed for it to lend the weapon some of its power. If Dahlia is successful, the Dread Ring will be imperiled, and that we cannot have.”

Szass Tam let her words hang in the air for a few moments before finally replying, “You chose well. Dahlia must be destroyed. Do not fail me in this.”

“More warriors?” Sylora dared to remind him. “That Ashenglade will be fully garrisoned?”

Szass Tam nodded. “Presently,” he said. “Prove to me that your… that my champion is suitable.” For dramatic effect, he raised his skinny, almost skeletal arms up high, the voluminous sleeves of his great robes sliding back from his dark skin. “Finish this unpleasantness with Dahlia. Oh, my disappointment in that one! I will have her before me-dead or alive, it does not matter!”

He ended with a flourish and the ash lifted up around him, obscuring his increasingly insubstantial form as he melted into thin air, returning to Thay.

Then Sylora did breathe easier. She hated those moments with Szass Tam. Even when she had nothing but good news to deliver, as when she’d revealed Ashenglade to him, she could never be quite sure what his reaction might be. Many claimed he was unstable, insane, and perhaps that was true, but Sylora equally suspected that Szass Tam used his unpredictability to his advantage. She was never balanced when speaking with him, never prepared for what might come her way, never certain he wouldn’t kill her for some reason or another, for some excuse she hadn’t even considered.

Yes, she realized, he really was her master.