Neverwinter ns-2

by R. A. Salvatore

  He continued to watch their advance for a short while longer anyway, and he realized deep in his gut that it was mostly because he wanted to witness the death of Effron.

  The archer in the tree moved swiftly into position. Barrabus saw him set an arrow. The other two were nearly at the edge of the clearing, and should charge forth at any moment.

  With a determined grimace, Barrabus pulled his attention away and turned back to the Ashmadai leader, noting then the warrior’s curious armor. He wore spiked pauldrons and had circular spiked metal plates strapped at various points on his body: one over his left breast, one centered on his gut, smaller ones on his hips and legs, and a strangely spiked codpiece. That garb was unusual enough, particularly for the uniformly leathered Ashmadai, but what showed beneath the armor as the assassin moved closer for a better look had Barrabus pausing in puzzled curiosity.

  Was he about to battle a mummy? The warrior was wrapped head to toe in strips of some grayish material, like dirty old rags.

  The assassin didn’t know what to make of it, but as soon as he heard the bowstring’s twang behind him, he didn’t care, and he bolted from the brush.

  He came in hard, sword leading in a sudden thrust. He stopped his run with a hop, planting both feet and springing into an airborne somersault. The Ashmadai warrior, surprisingly quick, turned as the assassin flew by, and even managed to prod out with his black and red scepter.

  Barrabus parried that easily enough and landed with his sword cleverly underneath the Ashmadai’s weapon. As he turned back in, the Ashmadai charged at him as well, and never quite managed to disengage that weapon. Up went Barrabus’s sword, carrying the scepterlike staff-spear with it and creating a clean opening in the Ashmadai’s defenses. Barrabus waded in happily, dagger set by his hip. He mused that he might be able to get back in time to watch Effron’s demise.

  The Ashmadai warrior twisted and tried to pull back, but Barrabus was too fast for that, and the turn only opened up a better target: the hollow of the warrior’s breast, just beside the spiked metal plate.

  The fine dagger, magically enchanted, smoothed by the blood of a hundred kills, caught up to the retreating man and plunged hard.

  And didn’t penetrate.

  Only then did Barrabus understand that the Ashmadai’s backward motion was not a futile retreat, but a ploy-and one that allowed the strange zealot to pull Barrabus off-balance and also put them both in a position where the Ashmadai could disengage his weapon. And since the kill shot had seemed assured, Barrabus had no contingencies in mind.

  The assassin moved purely on instinct as he felt the staff-spear pull free of his upraised blade, bringing his sword down hard, though he knew he’d be behind the incoming strike, and throwing himself to the side, swinging his opposite hip out even wider. His amazingly quick reaction prevented a solid strike from the scepter, and he accepted the glancing blow and spun away.

  Halfway through that spin, he realized he had a problem.

  The muscles on his right hip, where the clubbing scepter had struck, began to twitch and contract, and Barrabus stumbled.

  Barrabus the Gray never stumbled.

  His hip continued to spasm, the skin tightening around the bruise, and a burning sensation ran down the side of his thigh. He’d never felt anything quite like it. It wasn’t poison, but more of a magical effect.

  A necrotic and withering magic.

  The twitching did not diminish-quite the opposite. His leg muscles snapped and released and snapped again, painfully, and Barrabus had to fight hard just to hold his footing.

  He stumbled more than once, and couldn’t think of executing either a charge or a retreat.

  The Ashmadai warrior came on, a grinning mummy.

  Effron casually pulled a crooked wooden wand from his belt as he watched the archer in the tree drawing back, the other two crawling in amidst the thick brush.

  Those two burst from the underbrush, ten strides away, and the archer let fly.

  And Effron tapped the wand to his head, thinned to two dimensions, and thinned again into what seemed like a single line. The insubstantial warlock plunged into a snake hole, sliding into the ground as the arrow flew harmlessly by.

  “A caster!” one of the charging zealots yelled as he and his companion skidded to a stop.

  That proved to be an expected mistake, from Effron’s point of view, and he came back out of the hole, throwing a curse on the warrior to his left as he widened again to his normal form.

  The two cried out and came on with fury, waving their staff-spear scepters and crying out for their devil god.

  Effron’s magic reached out at the warrior to the right. He didn’t point his wand at her, but merely offered a sardonic smile. The air between caster and target waved and waggled, like heat rising from a hot stone. A psychic wave rolled out at the female warrior. That wavering air blackened and seemed to roll back up on itself like a coiling serpent, right before it struck her.

  She gave a garbled yelp and staggered, her face twisted and torn, her mind scrambled with agony and stinging pulses of magic.

  The warlock threw his hand out to block as the other warrior bore down on him, the zealot bending low as if to plow him right over-and why not, the warlock understood, for this one more than doubled his weight.

  Except that the warlock had more than one contingency in place for just this kind of attack, and as the warrior struck him, before the fighter could drive him backward, it was the Ashmadai who went flying, straight back the way he’d come, and in that flight, he burst into flames.

  Effron, too, went flying, but not from the warrior’s momentum. In his circle of study, the magic was known as Caiphon’s Leap, and he simply dematerialized-noting the archer’s next arrow sailing at him from the tree at just that moment-and walked through a dimensional teleport to reappear right behind the staggering female Ashmadai.

  With that one still dazed and stumbling and the other warrior rolling around on the ground, trying to douse the stubborn flames, Effron focused on the archer. Pointing his wand, he threw a black dart of magical energy from its tip. Anyone inspecting that dart closely might think it a flying arachnid.

  It struck the archer and nearly dislodged him, but he managed to hold his perch, grimacing and growling in defiance, and managed, too, to fire off another arrow.

  This one nearly scored a solid hit, and Effron looked at the missile with great annoyance as it hung from his black robe.

  But he dismissed his anger and turned from the archer and struck again at the burning warrior instead, a black bolt, a ghostly bane, flying forth from his wand to slam the man as he tried to stand, knocking him back to the ground.

  Effron could hardly contain his grin as he heard the archer cry out again in pain, and as the female warrior finally straightened out enough to charge at him from the other side. The warlock marveled at the archer’s aim, for he knew that his cruel and clever missile had hit the mark, and so knew the man to be in excruciating agony.

  But indeed the archer’s shot was true, the arrow diving at the back of Effron’s head.

  The Ashmadai gripped his scepter in two hands and swung it as a club, recklessly pushing forward with his attack.

  With his hip shuddering with spasms, muscles popping so forcefully he had a hard time standing straight, Barrabus couldn’t exploit that obvious weakness nearly as much as he might have hoped. Absent the injury, he could have picked his strikes clearly. As it was, he took what he could get.

  The scepter rushed in from his left and Barrabus faded right, snapping his sword up to block, thrusting his dagger hard again against the Ashmadai’s chest, then even managing to twist out of the scepter’s reach in such a manner that he was able to slash his sword down diagonally across the Ashmadai’s neck. He gained some confidence as he came out of the spinning retreat to find that his enemy was not pursuing, to find the mummy staggering under the weight of that strike.

  He started back in for the kill, but something in his gut held him
back-just enough so that as he neared, he was ready to defend. Fortunately, the cunning zealot revealed his ruse, coming straight in, uninjured, and launching another series of vicious swings.

  Barrabus backed and parried, keeping his distance, inspecting his enemy’s neck closely. He hadn’t marred the wrapping, and the mummy’s grin and sparkling eyes told him that his solid sword strike had actually done no real harm. He scanned downward, to find not a hint of scarring on the Ashmadai’s chest from his last dagger strike, and the first, which had been a perfect strike with all his weight behind it, revealed barely the slightest of scratches on the gray material.

  His weapons couldn’t get through.

  Barrabus dodged and struck again, sword deftly working around the swinging scepter to crack against the Ashmadai’s knuckles. But the man didn’t flinch; his grip didn’t waver at all, it seemed. And he responded with a backhand and a second violent sidelong slash that he cut short, as if to tease Barrabus by proving that the strike on the hand had done nothing at all, and reversed the swing suddenly into a forward thrust.

  Barrabus turned and fled, forcing his wounded hip forward to throw that leg in front of him. He clenched his teeth against the pain-he had no time for pain. Barrabus made good speed as he turned around a thick oak. He thought of stopping there for a sudden strike on his pursuing enemy, but realized such a reversal to be too obvious.

  But there was a second oak, blocked from the Ashmadai by the first…

  Effron smiled at the Ashmadai female standing directly in front of him just as the arrow dived from the tree. Obviously spying the true-shot arrow, she growled and grinned as well, and stabbed hard.

  Effron opened his arms wide, not even trying to block her thrust, and paid no heed to the arrow as it plunged into the back of his insubstantial head. The last magical bolt Effron had thrown took the name of “ghostly” precisely because of its effect on the caster.

  The thrusting scepter plunged into nothing substantial, just the misty form of the dematerialized, ethereal warlock, and the female managed just a hint of confusion on her face-just one delicious hint. The arrow, too, passed right through Effron, and right into the woman’s eye. The resulting splash of gore and blood proved conclusively that she was not similarly ghostlike. She fell straight to the ground, landing hard and awkwardly, but Effron knew she hadn’t felt a thing.

  Off to the side and in front of him, the other Ashmadai finally managed to pull himself from the ground. The zealot, his hair and eyebrows all burned and smoking, his skin bright red and bubbling in places, turned a hateful glare at the warlock. His breath coming in gasps of outrage, he charged.

  Effron spun his wand in the air and threw forth a spinning, shadowy snake that seemed to dissipate to nothingness as it neared the target. Still, the Ashmadai staggered as if he’d been punched in the face. Blood began to run from his shattered nose, and he spat out a tooth as well, but infuriated, he kept coming.

  The archer behind Effron cried out again, and this time there was more than simple pain reflected in that scream. This time, it was a scream of horror.

  Effron couldn’t help but smile at that, at how easily he’d controlled the battle.

  The Ashmadai warrior finally caught up to him, and the warlock moved into a defensive posture. Effron seemed at a great disadvantage, wearing only robes, holding only a flimsy wooden wand, and with one useless arm hanging limply behind his back, but the warlock was not without his magical defenses in the form of his enchanted robes, his ring, his amulet, his cloak, his bracers, and his belt. And Effron didn’t have to worry about scoring any hits against this warrior. The Ashmadai would take care of that all on his own.

  Indeed, as the warrior tried to strike at Effron, that shadowy snake reappeared as a shadowy strangler around the man’s neck. He gasped and gagged, his eyes bulging both with surprise and from the brutal force of the tightening magical coil.

  Stubbornly, the zealot swung again, his scepter banging against Effron’s mangled shoulder. The blow stung the warlock and forced him a step to the side.

  But the shadow strangler struck again, and this time the Ashmadai vomited blood. He lifted his scepter to strike again, but it fell from his dying grasp, and he stared at Effron with confusion and hatred, then tumbled over to the side, quite dead.

  The strange, mummified warrior charged around the tree, unafraid. He paused just long enough to look ahead, left and right, to try to find his quarry, and when his head turned right, Barrabus came out from behind the tree to his left.

  With all his strength, the assassin smashed his sword down atop the back of the warrior’s head, and this time, the zealot did move forward-and it was not a ruse-under the weight of the blow. In went Barrabus for a second strike, and a third and a fourth, and a kidney stab with his dagger.

  When his rage played out and the Ashmadai warrior managed to stagger far enough away from him, Barrabus didn’t pursue. In that confusing frenzy, Barrabus had been tapped again by the awful scepter, this time on the left shoulder. Now it, too, began to spasm. His dagger fell from his grasp and the pain jolted him every few heartbeats.

  A few strides away, the zealot turned around, grinning, unhurt by Barrabus’s attacks.

  Barrabus’s leg clenched in a vicious spasm as he bent to retrieve his dagger, and he nearly tumbled to the ground. It appeared as though he’d completely lost his balance, his sword, too, falling from his grasp.

  The Ashmadai came charging in.

  But despite the pain, Barrabus was not off-balance and helpless. He reached for his sword, or so it appeared, but came up again with a handful of dirt, which he flung into the eyes of his pursuer.

  The zealot groaned and fell back. Barrabus retrieved his sword-his other hand, numbed and writhing with spasms, wouldn’t let him get the dagger back-and turned and fled, running as fast as he could manage, throwing his right foot forward and fighting for all his life not to let that numb limb buckle beneath him.

  A barrage of screams demanded Barrabus’s attention, and he winced in revulsion as he noted the Ashmadai archer tumbling down from the tree. The frenetic man clawed and slapped desperately at his own skin as a horde of tiny spiders poured forth, biting their way through from inside the poor man.

  “Effron…” Barrabus muttered, and shook his head in disgust.

  He came into the clearing just as another black bolt flew from the warlock’s wand into the male warrior, who was on the ground and seemed already dead.

  “Effron!” Barrabus called. He heard the mummy Ashmadai closing in behind him. He turned to meet the charge, fighting defensively, not wanting to be touched by the scepter again. “Effron!”

  “I killed three already, and you haven’t even finished your one?” the warlock called back, his voice filled with an oh-if-I-must sigh.

  Barrabus growled and muttered a stream of curses under his breath. He parried furiously against the spinning and thrusting scepter. Every now and then, he countered with a strike, but he saw little chance of hurting this… creature.

  “Effron!” So distracted was he by his anger at the warlock, Barrabus nearly took a hit in the head, and one that would have surely killed him, he realized.

  A series of black and purple darts spun and danced in the air past Barrabus, diving into the zealot-and the mummified creature staggered just a bit.

  “More!” Barrabus yelled, and he took the opportunity to come forward and crack his sword atop the zealot’s forehead just for good measure.

  “Oh, I’m quite depleted,” Effron replied. His voice came from farther away and continued to diminish as he spoke.

  A wave of panic nearly swept over Barrabus. The good news was that at last his leg spasms seemed to have ended, though his left arm continued to jolt and jerk wildly.

  He needed another diversion, something so he could break away and flee…

  Even as he thought of that, the zealot in front of him exploded, or seemed to, with black and purple energy flying forth from every orifice. That energy sla
mmed Barrabus, hurting him far more than it hurt the zealot. But at least the magic had blinded the Ashmadai, albeit briefly, but enough for Barrabus to break off and flee.

  The zealot came in pursuit, and Barrabus glanced back just in time to see the contagion Effron had put in the warrior explode yet again, and once more the Ashmadai warrior had to pause and take a moment for his sight to clear.

  By that time, Barrabus the Gray had melted into the forest, and few were as adept at hiding as he.

  Particularly when his life depended on it.

  Barrabus was still limping when he finally returned to the Shadovar encampment on the western side of Neverwinter, just an hour before dawn. He stormed past the guards, ignoring their confused expressions, and moved right up to the small home Herzgo Alegni had taken as his own. The assassin didn’t even bother knocking, but just pushed through the door-or started to.

  “He’s not in there,” a guard called to him.

  Barrabus spun on the man, and nearly toppled over from the shooting pain caused by the sudden movement of his hip. He twisted his grimace into a scowl and forced himself forward to confront the man.

  “Where is he?”

  “Gone north,” said a second guard, coming fast around the corner. “We found a patrol, one of our own, slain in the forest.”

  Barrabus looked at him skeptically. Shadovar were dying almost every day in the continuing battle with the Thayans, so why would Alegni go out personally to investigate?

  “This is different,” the first said.

  Barrabus looked from one to the other. “Where is that miserable Effron?” he asked.

  “With Herzgo Alegni,” the first replied. “He arrived two hours ago, and claimed that you had been lost in battle.”

  “That was his hope,” Barrabus muttered.

  “He arrived just as the first report of the deaths in the north came back to us,” the other explained.

  “Where?” Barrabus demanded.

  “The fourth patrol route, near the northern road,” replied the guard, referring to a location that Barrabus knew well, since it had been Barrabus, after all, who had determined the most appropriate positions for the patrols.