From her room at the inn halfway across the city, Dahlia, too, plotted her revenge, and she, too, spotted the plume.
She had done her research well, though, and harbored no hope that the smoke would be the end of it. And no hope of averting the catastrophe.
The primordial would shake off the last remaining elementals-great creatures of water put in place by the ancient wizards of the Hosttower to harness the power of the fiery, godlike being for the benefit of the dwarven forge.
It would have broken free eventually, Dahlia knew, for the fall of the Hosttower had begun the erosion of that harnessing magic.
But not so soon. Not without some warning for the wizards and scribes of the Sword Coast.
Disaster, swift and complete, would come, and nothing she or anyone else could do could stop it, even slow it, now.
Chapter 9. WHEN THE WORLD BLEW UP
SHE KNEW SHE WAS BEING FOLLOWED. FOR A LONG WHILE, SHE HAD THOUGHT it her imagination, her very real fear that she had made some powerful enemies down there in Gauntlgrym, who would not so easily allow her to escape their wrath.
But how had they found her? Wouldn’t they have presumed her killed in the ancient dwarven city?
Sylora would have assumed the deaths of the Ashmadai she’d left behind, but then Dahlia reached up and felt the brooch she still wore, the brooch that gave her some power over the undead, the brooch that tied her to Szass Tam. Horrified, she yanked it from her blouse and threw it into the next open sewer hole she passed.
She wound a zigzagging course through the city, taking every available alley, vaulting to a roof at one point, and running on with all speed. But still they followed her, she sensed when weariness slowed her some time later.
Dahlia turned down the next alleyway, determined to double back so that she could get a better look at her pursuers. A wooden fence blocked the far end, but Dahlia knew she could scale it easily enough. A few strides short of it, she picked up her pace to leap but skidded to a quick stop as two large men-tieflings-stepped out from behind some piled crates to block her way.
“Sister Dahlia,” one said. “Why do you run?”
The elf glanced back, and was hardly surprised to see three more of the burly half-devils moving down the alleyway toward her. They were all dressed in the typical garb of a Luskar, but she knew the truth of who they were, confirmed by the speaker’s referral to her as “sister.”
Sylora had moved quickly to the chase.
Dahlia stood up straight and replaced her concerned expression with one of amusement. That was her way. When no option for flight presented itself, there remained the joy of battle.
She snapped her staff to its eight-foot length and presented it horizontally in front of her, dropping the two-foot length off either end to form her tri-staff.
“Would any challenge me directly, or must I kill all five of you at once?” she asked, starting the ends spinning in slow, end-over-end loops.
None of the Ashmadai moved toward her, fell into a defensive crouch, or even drew a weapon, and that unnerved the elf.
What did they know?
“You will continue this course?” a woman’s voice said in front of her while Dahlia was glancing over her shoulder at the three Ashmadai behind her. She turned to see Sylora standing between the two tieflings, looking magnificent as always in her red, low-cut gown, with that stiff, high collar framing her hairless head. “You would turn your failure into betrayal? I had thought you wiser than that.”
Dahlia took her time digesting those words, unsure how to respond.
“When the moment of glory came, Dahlia failed,” Sylora explained. “Do you think we, who are truer servants of Szass Tam, were surprised that our brash young sister could not execute the initiation of the Dread Ring? Do you believe that we, that I, ever expected anything better of you? And so I intervened to ensure that Szass Tam would not be disappointed. You did so much fine work in locating the primordial, after all, even if you then-”
“Then you tried to kill me,” Dahlia interrupted.
Sylora shrugged. “I couldn’t trust you to come with us, not when you had such powerful allies, that dwarf and his dark elf patron. You left me little choice, and even tried to stop what had to be done.”
“And now you’ve come to kill me,” Dahlia stated instead of asked, and her pretty blue eyes flashed with excitement. “Will you hide behind your zealot lackeys again, or will you join in the fight this time?”
“Were it up to me, you would be dead already,” Sylora replied, and she tossed something at Dahlia’s feet. The elf warrior dodged and braced, expecting a fireball or some other disaster to erupt, but when nothing happened and she got a good look at the item Sylora had tossed, she recognized her recently discarded brooch and nothing more.
“Our master sees potential in you still,” Sylora explained. “He bade me take you under my wing, as my servant.”
“Never!”
Sylora held up a finger. “You have a chance to get through this alive, Dahlia, and again serve in the ranks of the lich-lord. Perhaps you might even redeem yourself in his eyes, perhaps even in mine. And it’s that or die. Would you forfeit your life so easily?”
Dahlia mulled on the offer for a few heartbeats. She knew Sylora would make her life miserable, of course, but at least she might have a chance.
“Come,” Sylora bade her. “Reconsider. There is heated battle joined in the south. With the Netherese, no less. You would enjoy killing Shadovar, would you not?”
Dahlia felt the defiance draining out of her so completely she wondered if Sylora had enacted an enchantment upon her. The worry was fleeting, though, for she knew the source of her melting resolve. Was there anything in the world Dahlia hated more than the Netherese?
She looked at Sylora, hardly trusting the Thayan.
“My dear, if I wanted you dead, you would be dead already,” Sylora replied to that suspicious expression. “I could have filled this alley with killing magic, or with murderous Ashmadai.” She held out her hand. “Our road is to the south, to battle the Netherese. I will count you among my lieutenants, and as long as you fight well, I will trouble you little.”
“I am to trust Sylora Salm?”
“Hardly. But I serve Szass Tam, and he holds hope for you. When the beast comes forth, I claim the credit for the catastrophe, as it is mine to take. Your role will be seen as minor-an agent gathering information, and in the critical moment, failing. But you’re young still, and will redeem yourself with every Netherese beast you slay.”
Dahlia stopped her end-poles from spinning, clicked the staff back whole, and broke it into a four-foot walking stick once more. She bent and picked up the brooch, holding it in front of her eyes for just a few moments before fastening it once more to her blouse.
On the other side of the wooden fence, Barrabus the Gray listened to every word. Of particular concern, despite the obvious gravity of the conversation, was the reference to a drow and a dwarf, connected somehow to this elf warrior, Dahlia. He had learned little in his short time in Luskan, though he’d traveled to the undercity and had seen and spoken with the phylactery that held the spirit of Arklem Greeth.
He couldn’t yet put all the pieces together, but he felt he had enough to satisfy that wretch Alegni.
He was on the road soon after, riding hard to the south on a summoned nightmare that didn’t tire, and watching, every stride, the line of smoke rising into the clear late-summer sky far to the southeast.
