my foothold into Neverwinter, and they are ready to celebrate me as their first citizen!”
Herzgo Alegni stopped walking away and a hush fell over the gathering, with many Shadovar actually falling back a few short steps. Slowly the Netherese lord turned around to face the impudent Barrabus.
“So I have,” he said with a wry grin. “So I have.”
Herzgo Alegni turned away and walked off, leaving the sputtering Barrabus alone in the cul-de-sac of the encampment. All of the other Shadovar dispersed, many of them looking at Barrabus and shaking their heads, as if to scold him for his ridiculous pride.
And truly Barrabus the Gray felt ridiculous at that moment. Ridiculous and helpless. Trapped as he’d never been trapped before, not even when he’d lived among the city of drow elves in the Underdark enclave of Menzoberranzan.
He took a deep breath and stood straight, denying the remnants of the wracking vibrations of pure agony.
He took some comfort in imagining the expression Herzgo Alegni might wear when he learned of the Walk of Barrabus. Alegni had long coveted that crafted bridge as his own tribute.
Barrabus the Gray would take his small victories where he could find them.
Jestry stumbled down the steps of Arunika’s front porch and staggered off after Sylora Salm. It took him a long while to compose himself enough to actually catch up to the sorceress, and when he did, she stopped short and turned a scrutinizing eye upon him.
“I don’t know what to say,” Jestry remarked.
“Gratitude?” Sylora prompted, and Jestry looked back through the trees to the small cottage, and rubbed his face.
“Yes,” he managed to whisper after a few heartbeats, and he turned to stare back at Sylora, this woman he so adored. “Surprise?”
“Why?”
He looked back to the cottage, holding up his hands to indicate to Sylora that the answer should be obvious. Among Jestry’s male peers-even some of the female zealots-discussions of such escapades were fairly common, the typical bonding and bragging of strong young warriors living on the edge of disaster. But how could Jestry even begin to brag about this night? Who would believe him?
He looked back at Sylora and couldn’t help himself. “I love you.”
She hit him so hard that his weakened legs wouldn’t support him and he tumbled sidelong to the ground.
“Why?” he cried, looking up at her. “What?”
“Do you think Asmodeus would approve of such idiocy? Love? There is no love. There is only lust.”
“But-”
“You disappoint me,” Sylora interrupted and started away, and Jestry pulled himself to his feet and scrambled after her. Again she stopped just as he neared, turning an even sharper stare over him.
“That is the truth we know!” Sylora said, and she poked her finger hard against his chest. “And in that truth, we are stronger. There is no love. Our enemies are weak because they delve into such nonsense. There is no love, only lust. There is no warmth, only heat. There is no friendship, only alliance. There is no community, only self. These are the tenets of your existence. These are the truths to which you gave yourself. Would you deny all of that because your loins itch?”
As she finished, she reached down and grabbed Jestry’s crotch hard and twisted. The man grimaced but held his ground.
“You desire me,” Sylora whispered, moving very close to the man’s face. She held her grip as she did, and twisted a bit more.
“You desire me,” she said again, more intently, and Jestry realized that there was a question in her tone. He nodded.
“You must have me,” she said. “You seek to possess me.”
Again he nodded.
“What I just gave to you with Arunika will only sate you temporarily,” she whispered. “And then you will need me again, even more, and you will beg me to show you even greater pleasure.”
Jestry was breathing too hard to respond.
Sylora let him go and shoved him back a step.
“I’m glad of that,” she said, suddenly calm. “And the promise of greater pleasures, pleasures beyond your imagination, is not a hollow one. I have a purpose for you, Jestry, and when you fulfill it, I’ll show to you a level of ecstasy that will probably kill you. You would like to die like that, wouldn’t you?”
Jestry found himself nodding before he even considered the implications of her promise.
“But woe to you if your death is not found in service to Asmodeus.”
“What do you mean?”
“The devil lord would frown on love, don’t you think?”
The words hit Jestry hard and he lowered his gaze with embarrassment. “Yes,” he admitted softly.
“There is no love, only lust,” Sylora instructed yet again. “Our enemies don’t understand that, and so they are soft.”
“The Netherese?” Jestry asked, looking up.
Sylora shook her head. “Not the Netherese. They, too, understand, and that’s why they are dangerous. Our other enemies-the humans, the dwarves, the elves, the halflings-they are weak.”
“But we’re human,” Jestry said before he could bite back the words.
“We have ascended, because we know the truth. And what is that truth, Jestry?”
The man swallowed hard because within Sylora’s words there loomed a clear threat should he fail this test.
“There is no love, only lust,” Jestry recited.
“But you said that you loved me.”
Jestry took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Only because I desire you. I’d tear off your clothes and throw you down before me!”
“You said that you loved me.”
“I’ve been taught that women wish to hear those words, so I said them that I might more fully possess you,” Jestry insisted. He tried to sound convincing, but knew the lie to be so obvious as to be ridiculous.
“And now that you know that I reject those words, and that I desire you in the same way as you do me?” Sylora teased, coming forward to stand very near to him again, letting him feel her hot breath on his neck and chin.
“I hunger for you even more,” Jestry said. He was glad that he’d paused long enough to consider his response before blurting it out, for he’d almost said that he “loved” her even more.
Sylora grabbed him roughly by the chin and tugged him closer. “Fear not, my champion, for I will feed you well.”
She moved as if to kiss him, but instead bit him hard on the lower lip, drawing blood.
8
Drizzt guided andahar as fast as he dared while trying to keep Dahlia steady. He’d slung her over the back of the unicorn, and had stopped no less than three times in the first twenty strides to make sure she was still breathing.
She was, but barely. One of her thighs had turned an ugly blue and spittle flowed from her lips.
Drizzt didn’t dare stop to more closely inspect her wound, though he figured it had to be on her lower leg. He spurred Andahar on, trying to figure out where to turn, or if he was even going in the right direction.
With the delays and indecision, and the futile attempts to ease Dahlia’s suffering, it was long past midday when Drizzt at last arrived at the farmhouse south of Luskan, where the dirty woman eked out a paltry existence with her five children. They weren’t hiding this time. The children and the woman came to the doorway and
