their fears for what would yet come when the primordial awakened in all its mad rage.
Chapter 11. THE WAR OF DARK AND DARKER
BLACK SMOKE ROSE IN SERPENTINE SPIRALS ABOVE THE DEATH-SCORCHED ground. Like a river of death, a line of decay and necromantic magic reached out from the main hub of disaster across a field and into the pyroclast, seeking spirits that had been trapped within the shriveled corporeal husks and calling them forth to serve.
Sylora Salm watched this newest outreach with her typically sparkling eyes and satisfied grin. Though nearing forty, the years had not yet dulled the Thayan sorceress’s beauty-changed it, perhaps, making her a bit thicker about the waist, her skin a bit less smooth, and some small wrinkles had appeared around her eyes. But more than counterbalancing those unavoidable physical changes, there had come to the formidable woman even more inner substance and strength, more confidence and an increased air of power. It showed in her eyes, and in her grin.
Her Dread Ring was becoming a reality at long last, though the number of dead in the sparsely populated area of Neverwinter Wood, even before the cataclysm, had been deemed inadequate by several of Szass Tam’s ambassadors, most of whom were Sylora’s rivals. Szass Tam had trusted in Sylora’s judgment, though, and she continued to have faith that she would deliver on that trust, that her Dread Ring would come to fruition, giving the lich lord the hold he had so long desired on the Sword Coast.
The pyroclast began to stir, a shaking of the black volcanic stone. Some loose ash and dirt fell into growing cracks. A small gray hand appeared, withered and shriveled, its fingers twisted in a pose of perpetual agony. Slowly at first, but with increasing frenzy, the hand clawed and shoved at the rock. A pair of Ashmadai attendants started toward the spot to help the newest child of Szass Tam break free from its decades-old tomb, but Sylora held them back with an upraised hand.
She smiled widely, even giggled as the zombie pushed aside enough of the debris to poke forth its other arm, then prying the two limbs apart, shoved its head from its pyroclastic womb. Its scrabbling movements grew increasingly frenetic, the creature demanding to come free, desperate to hunt the living-but only those living, of course, who were not attuned to His Omnipotence Szass Tam.
Standing beside Sylora, Dahlia was far less imposing than she had been a decade before, though she looked exactly the same, her elf heritage protecting her from the ravages of a mere decade. She wore her traveling garb: the high black boots, the red-banded black hat, the white blouse under the black leather vest, the black skirt that climbed diagonally nearly to her hip, and the nine diamond studs in her left ear and one in her right. She had been ordered not to remove them, or to change the pattern-a reminder to Korvin Dor’crae that Sylora’s intervention had been to his benefit. And of course she still commanded Kozah’s Needle. But as there seemed something more formidable about Sylora, more solid and confident, so Dahlia appeared diminished.
She didn’t smile as she watched the birth of their newest minion-she hardly ever smiled anymore.
“Take heart, young one,” Sylora said to her, more of a tease than a gesture of goodwill. “See what we have done.”
The obedient Dahlia nodded, and wondered, not for the first time, how it had happened, how she’d fallen so far. Obviously her descent in the ranks of Szass Tam’s hierarchy had been facilitated by those long-ago pangs of conscience, her failure to finish the deed and begin that which she had promised. It hadn’t helped her, of course, that Sylora Salm had been the one to rescue her mission. That Dahlia had even been allowed to live after being captured in Luskan had surprised her, and still she wasn’t sure if the mercy had been because of her work in locating the primordial, or simply so that Sylora could subjugate her, and keep her in thrall.
Many were the days when Dahlia wished they’d killed her.
Beyond her predictable descent in the hierarchy, though, it was the other fall that had troubled Dahlia even more, the loss of swagger, of lust, of the devil-may-care attitude that had guided her life for so very long.
“I have spoken with Szass Tam about you,” Sylora remarked as she sent the zombie on its way, out into the forest to hunt Shadovar. She turned a wry grin on Dahlia. “He is pleased by your willingness to submit to my will.”
Dahlia tried hard to keep the hatefulness out of her blue eyes, but not hard enough, she knew from Sylora’s widening smile. Of course Sylora would bring it to that. She had taken such pleasure in putting Dahlia in her place, day by day and year by year. She had never once exacted any physical punishment on Dahlia, as Sylora often did with the Ashmadai. No, her abuse of Dahlia had been strictly emotional, one game of mental cat-and-mouse after another, and with every remark holding a double meaning.
“Our beast is awakening once more,” Sylora went on. “It will rain greater death and destruction this time, feeding the Dread Ring, securing our hold here. Even without that, the agents of Shade Enclave are retreating.”
“They’re still about,” Dahlia dared say.
“But not in Neverwinter Town in any numbers,” said Sylora. “Their grip on that city was undisputed before I awakened the beast, was it not?” Her tone with that last question made it quite clear to Dahlia that she was actually seeking an answer.
“Yes, milady,” the elf warrior dutifully responded.
“Now they remain only because they seek some ancient elven relics in Neverwinter Wood, but what they find, day after day, are my minions, risen from the ash and eager to kill.” She paused and looked across the small field to a group of Ashmadai standing beside a trio of different zombies, not ash-colored, but darker hued. Two of the three carried garish wounds, as if their corpses had been fed upon, and indeed they had. “That is the genius of His Omnipotence, is it not? Other armies diminish with death, but his grows with every fallen enemy.”
Dahlia’s eyes fixed on the third of those corpses, one who had died from a single crushing blow to the side of his head. She had done that, defeating the man in single combat, and it had been a good kill against a worthy opponent. In times past, she would have savored that victory, but looking upon the corpse brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
“Go to Neverwinter Town in the morning,” Sylora instructed her. “I wish to know how many reside there now, and how many of the Netherese stalk her streets.”
Fists clenched at his sides, Herzgo Alegni looked down upon the town of Neverwinter, focusing his gaze and his anger on that beautiful winged structure that centered the rebuilding.
The Herzgo Alegni Bridge, it had been called, for just a few days. For several years after that, like everything else in Neverwinter, it had been called nothing more than part of the disaster, for there had been no one around to take note of it.
But its name was the Winged Wyvern Bridge once more. None of the new settlers had heard of that decade-old proclamation of Lord Hugo Babris.
Hugo Babris-dead like everyone else who had been in or around the city of Neverwinter on that terrible day, save those Shadovar nobles, like Alegni, who had shadowalked back to Shade Enclave.
And one other, the man who stood beside Alegni even then, and who had informed him-with a bit too much glee in his voice, Alegni thought-of the reversion of the bridge’s name.
“You are certain of this?” Alegni asked.
“It was one of the tasks you put upon me to prepare for your arrival,” answered Barrabus the Gray. “When have I ever failed you?”
That sarcastic response had the tiefling turning hateful eyes at his subordinate.
“We will not be welcomed in there,” Barrabus went on.
“Then perhaps we should not ask their permission before entering,” Alegni said with a sneer, and turned back to the distant town and the bridge he had so coveted.
Barrabus didn’t even wait until the tiefling had turned before offering a shrug in response, but he did add to it, “These are not enemies to be dismissed too easily, these men and women we will face in Neverwinter, nor are they any friends of the necromancers who pull forth undead from the ruins. These are seasoned fighters and spellcasters
