who have stubbornly held that patch of ground against a legion of zombies crawling up right into their midst.”
“My Shadovar kill those creatures with impunity. And most of the monsters had been raised from Neverwinter, and had long departed, before the first of these new settlers ever arrived, according to your first report.”
“True enough, but I caution you to take them seriously, lest we find ourselves fighting to the death for this camp they insist on calling Neverwinter, and even then with so many enemies waiting for us in the forest.”
Herzgo Alegni continued to stare at the patch of black rock that had once been a thriving city, and rubbed his weary face. The tiefling-always an outsider, even among the Netherese-had faced severe discipline after the cataclysm, with some Shadovar blaming him personally for not foreseeing the Thayan threat and dealing with the minions of Szass Tam before they could inflict such damage. Few Netherese had been killed in the cataclysm, since most were rarely in the actual city of Neverwinter, but out in the forest pursuing the ancient treasure they so craved.
For the last decade, the expedition had continued, but Herzgo Alegni had not been sent back to lead it. But with the ground trembling yet again and the minions of Szass Tam gaining a clear upper hand-and an unstoppable position should they ever complete their Dread Ring-Alegni had asked for and had been granted a chance for redemption. He had returned just a month earlier, replacing the current commander, with orders to continue the hunt for fallen Xinlenal Enclave and to beat back the Thayan intrusion at all costs.
Xinlenal-a Netherese enclave, a city built on a floating mountain-was the first of the legendary Netherese enclaves. It had tried to flee the Fall, but made it only to the edge of the Empire of Netheril’s elven frontier. There it came crashing down, as had all the other enclaves save prescient Shade when Karsus stole the power of a goddess and magic itself failed. Thus far, only Sakkors had been rediscovered, once more floated, and eventually settled. The other great enclaves eventually wore away under the blasting sands of the phaerimm’s unnatural desert, but Xinlenal had fallen somewhere in what would eventually come to be known as Neverwinter Wood-or so the Twelve Princes believed. And as the Twelve Princes believed, the Empire of Netheril believed.
Of course, Alegni’s first act upon regaining command of the recovery of Xinlenal was to summon his principal scout and assassin back to his side, something that had not pleased Barrabus the Gray at all. The assassin had been living in relative luxury in Calimport, putting his skills to work for Netherese agents who sought to rule the street trade there. And best of all, he had seen little of Herzgo Alegni in that time.
It was clear to the tiefling that the one thing most intolerable to Barrabus the Gray was servitude. He could exist in a hierarchy, and had never seemed desirous of the responsibilities of command, but Alegni knew the assassin had acted as an independent assassin, serving the needs of the pashas of Calimport or other interests in return for agreed-upon rewards. That had all changed with Alegni, though, and the dominance the tiefling and the other Netherese nobles had exacted over Barrabus was wrought of magic compulsion and nothing more.
In the mind of Barrabus the Gray, he was a slave. He was rarely beaten or tormented with their debilitating magic, the demands on him had never been excessive, and he was able to live a very good life by anyone’s standards in Memnon or Calimport, or wherever he chose. But the coercion remained, and Alegni knew it gnawed at him.
Herzgo Alegni turned to face Barrabus and said, “You suggest we leave the city alone for now?”
“They are enemies of our enemies,” Barrabus replied. “But they are friends of Waterdeep, and so no friends of ours.”
Alegni continued to nod. “Then let them and the Thayans kill each other. Spend little time in the city-just enough to inform me of any significant changes.”
“And the bridge?”
“They can call it whatever they choose,” Alegni decided, though he couldn’t help but wince and betray his true feelings as he spoke the words. Alegni had to be careful, and had to find a way to regain his standing in the empire, and with fewer resources and much more to lose.
“Little time in the city,” Barrabus repeated back to the tiefling. “Little enough to return to the south in the interim?”
“There is a war raging here and you think to leave?” Alegni answered angrily, just the response he knew Barrabus the Gray had feared. “To Neverwinter Wood with you. I will not assign you to any company at present, but I expect you to be productive in battling my enemies.” He handed Barrabus a pouch, and from the sound of it as it was shuffled, it seemed to be full of small metallic vials. “Shy from the undead wretches and aim your blades at these fools who call themselves Ashmadai. And when they are dead, sprinkle this consecrated water upon them to deny the Dread Ring its food, and new minions.”
“You call the Ashmadai fools because they pay allegiance to a devil?” Barrabus said with a grin obviously designed to let Alegni know that he was indeed snidely referring to one line of the tiefling’s heritage.
“Be gone, Barrabus,” Alegni said. “Every tenday, I will know the news from Neverwinter Town from your lips, and as you come in to report, so too shall you offer me your tribute in the form of Ashmadai brands. Do not disappoint me, or you will find yourself serving among the shock troops in the ranks of one of my lesser commanders.”
“Over there! Heretic!”
“Kill him!”
The three Ashmadai charged ahead, brandishing their spear-staffs.
“He went into the woods!” one yelled.
Indeed he had, into the woods and up a tree with such grace and speed that the vertical turn had hardly slowed him. Sitting on a branch, Barrabus the Gray watched their approach with amusement. He could certainly understand why Alegni hated these cultists so, even were they not the mortal enemies of the Netherese. They seemed like animals-nay, worse than animals, for they threw aside their reason and logic in a purely savage lust to please Asmodeus.
The idiots worshiped a devil-god.
Barrabus shook his head at the stupidity of it all, his gaze lowering to follow the three frantic forms as they entered the copse, crashing through the brush with abandon. He hopped to his feet on the branch, slipped off his cloak, and circled around the trunk, disappearing into the tangle of leaves and branches.
“He’s in the tree!” one of the Ashmadai yelled a few moments later. The woman stood pointing, and even began hopping in her glee that they had apparently cornered their intended prey.
“No, he’s not,” Barrabus answered from behind the trio.
The woman stopped hopping. All three spun.
“But his cloak might be,” Barrabus answered.
He stood with his left hand resting on the hilt of a sword strapped to his hip, his right hand hooked by his thumb into his belt, halfway between the magical buckle and another blade, an elaborate and magical main-gauche he had been given as a gift by a powerful street family upon his return to Calimport nearly a decade before.
“You wished to speak with me, I presume,” he said, teasing them, and after only a brief, astonished pause, the three cultists howled and charged.
Barrabus crossed his arms in front of him, his right hand pausing for only an instant to activate the magical buckle, and even as he continued the movement across to reach his sword, he flicked that blade forward.
The female Ashmadai, in the middle, gave a halting gurgle and broke off the charge, staggering backward with the knife deep in her throat.
The other two charged on, the one to Barrabus’s left thrusting his weapon like a spear, the other swinging his red-hued scepter as a club, both either not caring or not even realizing that their ranks had been thinned.
Barrabus’s main-gauche came free of its sheath and crossed back under his right arm, slower to draw the longer blade, to the left in time to slap against the Ashmadai’s thrusting spear, hooking the weapon between its central blade and the cunningly upturned hilt. Even as he drew forth his long sword, Barrabus ducked under the first swing of the club and rotated his left wrist, turning his main-gauche under and around the presented spear. The sword came back to the right to block the second club swing, up high then the third down lower, and all the while, he kept that left hand rotating, forcing the Ashmadai to keep adjusting his grip to prevent having the spear taken from his grasp.
Finally the Ashmadai disengaged the spear, but only by throwing it out wide to the side, and in that split second of opening, his sword still expertly picking off every furious swing by the other opponent, Barrabus rushed ahead and poked the spearman hard in the shoulder as he tried to duck away. The cultist yelped, but quickly
