Neverwinter ns-2

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Neverwinter ns-2 Page 9

by R. A. Salvatore


  He looked up at the adjacent roof for Guenhwyvar. An archer was in view, desperately trying to set an arrow as another form, a woman, came running across the rooftop, brandishing a long knife. She barreled into the archer, her leading arm sweeping aside his bow, her knife striking hard.

  Drizzt could have shot her down, but was she an enemy or an ally?

  He lowered the bow and threw himself into a slide to the railing overlooking the street, overlooking Dahlia, overlooking the thugs closing in on her.

  He could only yell out for her. He lifted his bow and tried to decide which one of these killers he would stop.

  And, by default, which of the others he would allow to get to Dahlia.

  Therfus Handydoer laughed a bit as he watched the scene unfolding in front of him, the female elf tumbling out into the streets, still staggering foolishly from his lightning serpent.

  He knew the drow was trapped in his area of icy punishment. He’d defeated the feared Dahlia and her drow companion so easily! He almost pitied warriors.

  Almost, but how might he pity one foolish enough to lift a sword when a spell was so much more powerful?

  It occurred to him to finish Dahlia then, to take the kill as his own before the surrounding thugs could close in, and so he began to whisper his next spell.

  The tip of a deadly dagger came in tight against his throat.

  “This is not your time to kill, son of Ship Rethnor,” a quiet voice intoned. “Is it your time to die?”

  Therfus’s mind whirled. How could he escape this? For a brief moment, his sneering contempt for those who chose the blade over the spell was shaken.

  “You would kill the noble second of a high captain?” he asked, hoping his station would save him where his spells obviously could not.

  The man behind him snorted.

  “Do you not understand that significance?” a suddenly defiant Therfus said with strength returned to his voice. “I am a noble second!”

  “As am I.”

  Therfus managed to turn his gaze down to the dagger, along its silvery blade to the beautifully jeweled and distinctive hilt. Suddenly he understood.

  “Beniago of Ship Kurth!” he declared. The recognition of his would-be killer brought as much relief as fear, particularly since he knew the reputation of that deadly dagger.

  The knife moved away from his throat and the assassin shoved him a step forward. Therfus wheeled around. “This is no business of Closeguard Isle!”

  “Obviously, we disagree.”

  “You walk on dangerous ground, son of Ship Kurth.”

  He meant to finish with an imposing point of his long and crooked finger, but as he reached out, the ground jolted with such force that it was all Therfus could do to hold his footing. Even Beniago, so graceful and feline in his movements, lurched forward.

  Anger rose up to bury Dahlia’s fear-anger that her end would come at the hands of such peasants, anger that she couldn’t explore this relationship with a companion who, at long last, might prove worthy of her, anger that Sylora Salm would outlive her.

  And anger that Kozah’s Needle, her powerful staff, had eaten the lightning serpent and was apparently multiplying its power and dumping that power back into Dahlia in a debilitating way. She wanted to throw the staff aside, but she couldn’t begin to release her grip on it.

  But there was one thing she could do, she realized.

  As her attackers closed in, she drove the end of Kozah’s Needle down hard upon the cobblestones and bade the staff to release its energy.

  An explosion of lightning lifted her up, the ground itself rolling, turning large stones free of their settings and hurling the pirates into the air.

  Drizzt yelled for Dahlia as the porch above her came tumbling down. Dahlia couldn’t turn to look. She felt the energy flowing through her, focusing through her staff, releasing into the ground. Like a great exhale, the lightning energy drained her as it departed, so fully consuming her every thought that she was hardly aware of the devastation around her.

  When it had all died away, Dahlia stood calmly, a solitary figure, her eyes closed, holding Kozah’s Needle upright as it continued to throw the occasional spark.

  Eventually, she was able to open her eyes. Some of the pirates crawled, others squirmed, one grasped an ankle he’d painfully turned in his fall.

  None of them seemed to hold any further interest in Dahlia, unless it was in getting as far away from her as quickly as possible.

  To the side lay the ruined porch, a dark form curled under a pile of splintered wood.

  “By the gods,” Therfus mumbled, staring dumbfounded below.

  “I offer you the chance to flee this place,” Beniago said.

  “In the name of Kurth?” the wizard snapped back at him.

  “In any name you please.”

  “Do you know who this is?” the wizard spat.

  “A mercenary of Bregan D’aerthe, I assume,” Beniago replied, and his grin showed that he was well aware that he was taunting Therfus.

  “Not him, the female,” Therfus stated flatly.

  “We know.”

  “Then you know of Dahlia’s history with my Ship. She’s a murderess, and Borlann Rethnor her victim!”

  Beniago nodded.

  “She murdered my friend! My captain!” Therfus said with a growl. “You would deny me this retribution?”

  Beniago brandished that terrible jeweled dagger, and given the reputation of both the blade and the assassin holding it, Therfus understood well the depth of that threat. Beniago could stab him before he could begin to defend, physically or magically, and with that blade, it would only take one wound to kill him.

  Therfus glanced all around. He heard the black panther and followed the sound of the roar to the roof, where new warriors-men serving Kurth, no doubt-had taken control.

  He looked back to Beniago and his knife.

  “Closeguard Isle will pay for this outrage,” Therfus promised as he took several quick steps away from the assassin. “This is a grave betrayal, I warn!”

  Beniago merely shrugged.

  Dahlia heard Guenhwyvar land behind her as she charged to the porch rubble. She batted aside one loose board before Drizzt began to pull himself up from the wreckage.

  He glanced behind her and suddenly stopped moving.

  “Stand easy, Guen,” he whispered.

  The panther issued a low growl in response.

  Dahlia slowly turned around.

  A group of men stood in front of her, all holding bows, save one who leveled a wand in Dahlia’s direction.

  “Keep your cat at bay,” the warlock with the wand warned.

  “Yes, do,” added a tall man in a dark cloak, walking out of the alleyway directly across from the fallen porch. “I am Beniago,” he explained with a low bow. “Your presence is requested at Ship Kurth, forthwith.”

  “And I suppose I would have no choice in the matter?” Drizzt asked.

  “It would seem not,” Beniago replied.

  “Better than Ship Rethnor,” Dahlia said to Drizzt.

  Drizzt stared at her hard, his scowl placing blame for this turn of events on Dahlia’s pretty shoulders. But his anger couldn’t withstand Beniago’s next remark.

  “You’re both wanted,” he said.

  Drizzt studied Beniago carefully. He’d never met this one, but the man’s easy posture warned him that he was no novice with the blade. He and Dahlia were certainly and undeniably caught.

  Still, Drizzt looked for weakness, for some seam in the leather armor, for some option should the need arise.

  His scan ended at the man’s belt, at the hilt of that distinctive blade. Memories of a distant past flooded Drizzt’s thoughts.

  It couldn’t be the same blade, the drow told himself.

  But the enemy he’d known who had carried such a dagger had likely been in Luskan, with Jarlaxle, perhaps even at the time of his death.

  It was possible.

  “Forthwith,” Beniago repeat
ed, forcefully drawing Drizzt from his contemplation. The drow looked up at the tall man, almost expecting to see an old enemy standing in front of him. But this man was taller, lighter skinned, with curly red hair… and a hundred years too young!

  Beniago motioned to Drizzt to follow Dahlia, who had moved several steps away. He did so, with a grin on his face.

  Perhaps one of the problems of living so long a life, he mused, was the jumble of memories-too many memories!-which inevitably found their way to his consciousness at the slightest provocation. He glanced again at the dagger and laughed at himself, certain now that it was a different blade.

  But only because it had to be. The world had moved on.

  5

  Hadencourt paused outside of a Shenglade to admire its construction, and though he knew it had been created magically, it still seemed impossible to him that so much had been built in so short a time. Hadencourt wasn’t quite as committed to Szass Tam, and by extension Sylora Salm, as he was to the Ashmadai zealots, but he had to give credit where credit was due.

  Ashenglade was not the work of Asmodeus or any other denizen of the Nine Hells. It was the work of the Thayan Dread Ring.

  As he approached the gates of the fortress, he faced a phalanx of grim-faced Ashmadai guards and a host of zombie minions, but all he had to do was flash his smile-his real smile and not the facade he wore for the peasant bandits in the north. The resistance melted away, and the gates were thrown wide.

  “Dahlia and the drow were heading north, to Luskan, they said,” Hadencourt reported when he stood beside Sylora Salm on the second floor of her treelike tower.

  “Greeth! Ark-lem!” Valindra shrieked from the corner.

  Hadencourt stared at her incredulously.

  “Ignore her,” Sylora told him.

  That was no easy thing to do, though, and Hadencourt’s gaze lingered over the lich for some time. Valindra stared back at him with a crooked grin.

  “The farther they go from here, the better, though I’d love to burn Dahlia to ashes,” Sylora Salm replied to the original point.

  Valindra’s expression disappeared and she cocked her head as she studied Hadencourt. She’d noted the great deference in Sylora’s tone, Hadencourt realized, and that, he deduced, was something rarely heard.

  “You may get your opportunity,” he replied, turning back to the sorceress. “Dahlia made a point to mention Neverwinter Wood as her intended destination, though her immediate road headed the opposite way. She said there was adventure to be found here. I assume she was referring to you.”

  “And her companion?”

  “Tried to deflect her from revealing their future path.”

  “He was wary of you?” Sylora asked suspiciously, and she turned around to view the hollowed tree trunk she’d excavated and hauled into the back of the chamber. Years before, Sylora had created of the trunk a scrying pool.

  Hadencourt shook his head doubtfully. “He was more reserved than she, I would expect. But then, who isn’t?”

  Sylora turned back to regard Hadencourt directly, her look as suspicious as her previous question. Hadencourt was a newcomer to Neverwinter Wood, one of the more recent Ashmadai reinforcements. He wouldn’t have known Dahlia from his time there, as she was long gone by the time he’d arrived-that was why Sylora had chosen him to serve as a scout on the northern road.

  “I know all about Lady Dahlia,” Hadencourt admitted.

  “Who are you?”

  The tall man smiled as he’d done outside, revealing long, pointed teeth. He furrowed his brow and a pair of horns sprouted from his forehead.

  “I thought you were Ashmadai,” Sylora said, trying to keep her calm facade-no easy task when confronted by a mighty malebranche devil.

  “Oh, my lady Sylora, I surely am!” Hadencourt replied. “More devoted than these tieflings and humans, of course. After all, they merely worship Asmodeus, while I witness his glory personally. And let me assure you that he’s every bit as impressive as his hordes of worshipers would have you believe.”

  “Does Szass Tam know of your-?”

  “Do you think me foolish enough to try to hide something this important from the archlich?”

  “And he sent you here anyway,” Sylora remarked.

  “Fear not, my lady Sylora,” Hadencourt said with a deep bow. “In this endeavor, I am subservient to Sylora Salm. I am no spy, unless it’s your spy. Such were my orders from Szass Tam, and I honor them with relish.”

  Her expression reflected her skepticism.

  “Greeth! Greeth!” Valindra chimed in.

  Sylora looked past the devil to the lich, and Hadencourt turned as well to regard her-fast enough to see a serious and cogent expression on Valindra’s face, albeit briefly, before she tittered and floated away.

  Grinning knowingly-the lich wasn’t as insane as she let on-Hadencourt faced Sylora once more.

  “Were I a demon of the Abyss, you would be correct in your doubts, I expect,” Hadencourt said. “But consider my heritage. One does not survive the Nine Hells with subterfuge, but with obedience. I accept my place as your second.”

  Sylora cocked an eyebrow, drawing a laugh from the devil.

  “As your primary scout, then?” Hadencourt bargained. “Surely you will not expect me to submit to the commands of one of these mortal Ashmadai.”

  “You will remain separate from the warriors here,” Sylora agreed.

  “Well, then, with your leave, I’ll return to my duties on the north road.” He bowed again, and seeing Sylora’s nod, turned to leave.

  “If you wish to truly serve as my second,” Sylora remarked, stopping him before he’d gone more than a couple of steps, “you will relieve me of that nuisance Dahlia.”

  Hadencourt turned a sly eye Sylora’s way. “Szass Tam was not as definitive regarding her fate.”

  “Szass Tam didn’t understand the depths of her traitorous ways, then.”

  They exchanged nods.

  “With pleasure, my lady Sylora,” Hadencourt the war devil said.

  Sylora Salm had enough experience with devils to know he meant it.

  “You would deny me this glory?” growled the Ashmadai warrior, Jestry. “I have earned this moment, and you would see me stand back and allow…” He paused, blowing his breath out in angry gasps as he considered the huddled, ash-covered zombies scrabbling through the forest all around them, heading for the walls of Neverwinter. They were some of the multitudes who had died in the cataclysm-the great volcanic eruption that had buried Neverwinter a decade before. They seemed more like the corpses of halflings, or human children, for the molten fires had shriveled their forms.

  “We will not win this night,” Sylora replied. “Not fully, at least. All that we send in will be destroyed.”

  “I’m not afraid to die!” Jestry proclaimed.

  “Are you eager to die, Jestry?”

  The Ashmadai warrior went to strict attention. “If in the service of my god Asmodeus-”

  “Oh, shut up, fool,” Sylora said.

  Jestry blinked in astonishment, and he seemed wounded.

  “If Asmodeus thought you of more service in his presence, then he would drag you to the Nine Hells personally, and immediately,” Sylora teased. “He wants you to fight for him, fearlessly, but not to die for him.”

  “My lady, an Ashmadai must be willing-”

  “Willing and wanting are two different things,” Sylora interrupted. “Pray do sort out that difference, Jestry. I expect you to die in service to me, if it’s necessary. I don’t want you to die in service to me-not yet, at least-and surely I don’t want you to want to die in service to anyone else, and if you do then know that there will be ramifications.” She matched Jestry’s dumbfounded stare with a glower. “If you die, I can raise your corpse,” she explained, and motioned to the shriveled zombies moving in the forest night. “When I come to believe that you will be of more service to me as such, I’ll kill you myself, I promise you.”

  Jestry paused fo
r some time before speaking, “Yes, my lady.” His gaze went back to the northwest, to the distant torch lights marking the low wall of Neverwinter.

  “Come along,” Sylora bade him, and she started walking the other way, to the south and deeper into the forest.

  “My lady?”

  “Be quick.”

  “But… the battle against Neverwinter?”

  “The servants of Szass Tam know their mission,” Sylora assured him, and she kept walking. Jestry, after another longing look to the distant torchlight, scrambled to catch up.

  Valindra Shadowmantle’s fiery red eyes gleamed with hunger as the scrabbling zombies passed her by.

  She held the magical scepter, and through it willed the zombie legions out of the forest and across the small clearing. They ran on all fours to the distant wall, oblivious to the many arrows reaching out at them.

  A fireball lit up the night on the middle of the field, consuming several of the hunched forms, but Valindra, so amused by destruction, could only giggle.

  A group comprised of living soldiers ran up beside Valindra, but didn’t pass.

  “Would you have us attack, Mistress Valindra?” asked an Ashmadai woman, a young and pretty thing who had until only recently been the consort of Jestry.

  “Let them play! Let them play!” Valindra shrieked in response, and the group of Ashmadai shrank back against the unexpected anger in her voice. “Ark-lem… Ark-lem… oh, which way was it? He will help us, he will. Greeth! Greeth! Greeth!”

  The Ashmadai woman looked to her companions and rolled her eyes.

  Suddenly, Valindra’s magic hurled the woman up in the air and onto the field, where she stumbled, but managed to hold her footing.

  “To the wall!” Valindra commanded her. “Go and kill them!”

  Beside the lich, the group of Ashmadai cheered and started to charge, but Valindra turned on them fiercely and held them back. “Not you!” she ordered, and as one, they stopped short.

  Valindra turned back to the young woman. “You,” she explained, her voice sinister and thick with vicious amusement.

  The woman hesitated and the lich leveled her scepter. Whether out of fear or from the simple reminder of her loyalty to Asmodeus, the warrior woman gave a battle cry and sprinted toward the wall.

 

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