among the scar of battle and view the many bodies cleaved fully in half. Only one blade on that field was mighty enough to do that, and only one arm strong enough to wield that blade.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” said Jelvus Grinch. “And your actions are neither unknown nor unappreciated.”
“I will find my name attached to some great structure in Neverwinter?”
“If you wish, of course. A market square, perhaps.”
“That bridge,” Alegni insisted.
“Bridge? The Walk of Barrabus?”
“Never speak that name again,” Alegni replied, calmly, too calmly, the threat obvious and undeniable. “Once it was called the Winged Wyvern Bridge, then, too briefly in the days before the cataclysm, the Herzgo Alegni Bridge.”
Jelvus Grinch’s face screwed up with surprise. Few alive knew of that brief moment of Neverwinter lore.
“Yes,” Alegni explained, “because the Lord of Neverwinter in the day of the cataclysm knew well the friendship and alliance of Herzgo Alegni, and he was so grateful for my service to his city that he changed the name of Neverwinter’s most notable and famous structure. I didn’t immediately explain this indiscretion to you. It’s a new day in Neverwinter, and so I decided to show my value to you who have come here to rebuild. Barrabus the Gray is my man, who serves at my pleasure and my suffrage. A man I can kill with merely a thought. He came to you because I sent him to you, and of no accord of his own. Do you understand that?”
Jelvus Grinch swallowed hard and nodded.
“He’s my man, not his own,” said Alegni. “If I tell him to kill himself, he will kill himself. If I tell him to kill you, you will be dead. Do you understand?”
Another hard swallow preceded the next nod.
“I command a sizable Shadovar force,” the tiefling said, lifting his gaze from poor Jelvus Grinch to address all of the gathering. “You have met our wretched enemies, these Thayans and their ghoulish minions with ghoulish designs. I alone can protect you from the withering fingers of Szass Tam, and I will do so.”
He paused and turned his glare back to Jelvus Grinch directly, and finished with a simple edict, “The Herzgo Alegni Bridge.”
“A bright day will dawn for this land in a time of darkness,” came a voice from the gathering, and all eyes turned to see a disarmingly comely woman with curly red hair and a warm and open face.
Several others whispered, “The Forest Sentinel,” with great reverence, prompting Alegni to regard this innocuous-looking woman more carefully.
“We have hoped and prayed that one would stand above, and lead us to banish the old evil and open a path to new horizons,” the woman, Arunika, went on. “Are you that one, Herzgo Alegni?”
Herzgo Alegni straightened and his massive chest swelled with confidence that he was indeed, or surely could be.
“The Herzgo Alegni Bridge!” another man from the gallery shouted, and many others chimed in their agreement.
Alegni looked to Jelvus Grinch, who eagerly nodded.
The Netherese lord paced around, basking in the glow of approval, then assured them all, “Szass Tam’s agents will be driven from this land at the end of my sword. Your city will thrive again. I’ll see to that, but on your lives, you will not forget my role.”
It started as a small clap, a single set of hands-the red-haired woman’s hands, Alegni noted, this one they had called the Forest Sentinel-then joined by a second, and within a few heartbeats, the leaders of Neverwinter called out for Herzgo Alegni with a full-throated “huzzah!”
Jestry stood in the firelit chamber, naked and sweating, covered in hot oil. He didn’t cry out in pain, for the aboleth was in his mind and wouldn’t allow him to feel that pain. The creature chased down every sensation of pain before it could come to fruition, numbing Jestry, distracting him, keeping him in a state of emptiness.
These mental bindings were much easier, after all.
Not far from Jestry, a cauldron hissed and bubbled. A pair of gray dwarves hustled around it, stoking the flames, pouring in more oil. A third dwarf slave, wearing thick gloves and carrying long tongs, scrambled up and down a small ladder near the cauldron, reaching in to pull forth the treated, leathery strips.
Whenever the dwarf caught one, he jumped down from the ladder and ran to Jestry-there was no time to tarry and let the umber hulk hide cool. He set one end of the long strip against the naked man, right where the last one had ended, and tightly wrapped it around his body, pulling hard with each turn.
The oil beneath the treated strap sizzled, Jestry’s skin bubbled and burst as he melded with the enchanted and magically treated leather.
“It will heighten his resistance to lightning energy,” the slimy servitor who stood nearby quietly whispered to Valindra, who watched with great amusement.
And turn the blades and dull the thud of Dahlia’s staff, Valindra telepathically replied. She didn’t specifically impart, but was thinking that they should do this to all of the Ashmadai.
Through his servitor, the aboleth disavowed her of that notion, filling her ear with watery whispers explaining the realities of such an unusual ceremony as this. “Five hulks must die for one human to be armored, and in any typical situation, those five would be more valuable by far. Your human champion will not live long, and will never again know a moment without great pain. Were my master to release him from possession now, the agony would kill him. He will be Sylora Salm’s champion only through his zealotry, his willingness, his happiness to die for his cause.”
“But he will hate her for this,” Valindra reasoned as the dwarf’s wrapping reached Jestry’s crotch. “For never again will he know Sylora’s touch, her kiss and her charms.” She gasped, giggled, and blurted, “He is neutered!”
“His focus is singular now,” the servitor explained. “He’s Sylora Salm’s champion and will fight for her until his death. Nothing else will matter to him.”
“How long can he live in this state?”
“A few moons, perhaps a year.”
Valindra continued to marvel at the process as she watched this Ashmadai warrior become something more, something unique and dangerous. The wrappings went tight around his belly, circling up to his chest, to his neck. She wondered about his head and face-how complete would the skin armor suit be?
The smell of burning hair as the treated umber hulk hide wrapped around him showed her, for when the slave dwarves were done, only Jestry’s eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth remained uncovered.
The servitor moved away from her, moving up to the transformed warrior, for now the aboleth had to focus completely on Jestry, she realized, had to deceive the man so that he could shrug through the agony and hold to his purpose.
One of the dwarves came up to the lich and motioned for her to leave. “Ye best go in the other cave for a bit,” he explained. “It’s to get loud in here, don’t ye doubt.”
Valindra looked at him with disdain, even disgust, but she heeded his words and glided out into the antechamber, where several other Ashmadai guards waited.
“Where is Jestry?” one woman asked.
In reply, a shriek of agony came from the other room. It went on and on, changing in tone from a high- pitched, pain-filled wail to an angry cry to a roar of utter defiance.
“What have you done to him?” another Ashmadai asked angrily.
Valindra stared at him and said nothing for many heartbeats. The zealot, for all his rage, shrank back from that withering glare.
“Would you like to learn first-hand the answer to that question?” Valindra calmly replied, and the man, for all his dedication, for all his willingness to die for his cause, shrank back even more.
After a long, long while, the screaming in the other room at last abated, and the servitor arrived at the door to inform them that the “dressing” was complete. Soon after, Jestry shambled out of the room, walking stiffly, rolling his hips to throw one leg out in front of him. His breathing came in gasps, and his eyes showed more red than white, for in his agony and screaming he’d exploded many blood vessels.
“It’s done?” Valindra asked him.
He grunted a response that sounded affirmative.
“And you are?” the lich pressed.
