Alegni backed off a bit. “And you know more of the Neverwinter region than anyone else?” he asked, echoing her boasts.
“I do.”
“Your claims of my role here were predicated on more than observation.”
Arunika shrugged. “If the Thayans, the old evil, prove victorious, then what matter what I told Jelvus Grinch and the others?”
Now Alegni put his hands to his hips.
“If they don’t win out, then of course someone will take the lead against them,” Arunika explained. “Why not Herzgo Alegni? I see no one around more capable or prominent.”
“Are you saying you made your claim for my sake?”
“There’s more to it than that,” Arunika replied. “But it seemed prudent to bolster your cause, for your sake, as you said, but also for the benefit of Neverwinter. Our enemies are formidable.”
Herzgo Alegni really had no answer. He stepped to the side and looked out through the door to the carved image of the wyvern that marked the Herzgo Alegni Bridge.
To his surprise, Arunika rose and moved right beside him, putting her arm on the small of his back.
“What do you think of the bridge?” Alegni asked.
“It’s the most beautiful and impressive structure in Neverwinter,” she replied. “It’s hard to believe it carried any name other than your own.”
Alegni turned on the woman, towering over her.
She didn’t back away, but tilted her head back, slightly parted her lips, and closed her eyes, inviting him.
It was an invitation Herzgo Alegni did not resist.
Arunika left Alegni’s room much later that evening. She didn’t reveal her true form to the tiefling during their lovemaking.
Nor did she tell him of the Abolethic Sovereignty, or of her relationship with Sylora Salm, or a million other little details that might have given the Netherese lord pause in his decision to couple with her.
Or in his decision not to kill her.
“A new pet?” Valindra asked when she caught up to Sylora just outside the perimeter of the Dread Ring. Beside the sorceress, flipping somersaults in the air and waggling its arms stupidly, was a small imp, a bat-winged little hellion whose smile might have been meant as disarming, but seemed more of a warning, somehow.
“A messenger from Arunika,” Sylora explained. “I assume that your meeting with the Sovereignty ambassador went well.”
“You assume? Or you already know?” Valindra asked, looking to the imp, who grinned wider still, that pointy- toothed smile almost taking in its batlike ears. It flapped its leathery wings and flipped over backward, landing easily back in place.
“I’ve been told that my champion is well prepared for the trials ahead.”
Valindra nodded. “And you have heard that the ambassador plans to support our cause with a strike at Neverwinter?”
“It pleases Arunika greatly,” Sylora explained with a wry smile. “Apparently the Netherese have now claimed a leadership role in the city. They’ll fill the role as the great protectors of Neverwinter, so they say. The new citizens are even naming landmarks after them.”
Valindra smiled at the delicious irony. Right after these Netherese proclaim themselves as protectors, the city would be battered to its core.
“They will find their city is built upon less than solid ground,” Sylora said.
“Will we join in this attack?”
“Only as a diversion,” Sylora replied, “to lure the Netherese from within the city.”
She turned away from Valindra then and back to the Dread Ring. She whispered a few words, then bent low, reaching into the ashen circle. When she turned back around, she held one of the Ashmadai scepters, a spear-staff, except that this one was more black than red, coal-colored and shot through with red steaks that appeared like living veins.
“An enchanted weapon?” Valindra asked.
“It draws power from the ring,” Sylora answered.
“For your champion.”
“Of course. A little added pain for Jestry’s opponents.”
Jestry appeared, hulking toward her. He wore a cape and a kilt, but his mummy wrappings were all too clear to see. He wasn’t moving as awkwardly as before. The wrappings had melded more fully with his skin, and the tightness and stiffness of the treated hide gave way to a more normal gait. He walked right up to Sylora and stared at her, unblinking, those parts of his face that were visible betraying no emotion.
“Does it hurt?” Sylora asked him, and she sounded compassionate. Jestry shook his head.
“Do you understand how powerful you have become?” Sylora asked.
The mummified champion smiled.
“You will kill her,” Sylora assured him. “You will serve as my great champion. All will fall before us-the Netherese will be driven from the forest. Szass Tam will know of your exploits, I assure you.”
“When we are done, will you restore me?” Jestry asked, struggling with each word as if the wrappings on his face had not loosened enough for him to properly formulate the words.
“I’m told that it won’t be necessary,” Sylora reached out and gently stroked Jestry’s face. “You will grow fully into your new skin. All of the sensations will return.”
Jestry’s hand snapped up to catch Sylora by the wrist, and he held her hand against his face for a long while.
“I have another gift for you.” Sylora held up the enchanted staff-spear.
Jestry’s eyes gleamed with hunger. He let go of Sylora’s arm and stepped back, taking the weapon in both hands.
“Go and practice with it,” Sylora bade him. “Learn of its new powers.”
Jestry looked at her curiously.
“Go,” she repeated. “Valindra and I have much to discuss.”
Jestry nodded obediently, turned, and ran off.
“You know his wrappings will not become like his old skin, of course,” Valindra said when he was gone. “The process is lethal. Jestry has barely months to live, if he’s fortunate. A year or so if he’s unfortunate.”
“He will serve me well long after that,” Sylora assured her.
Valindra looked at her, then at the Dread Ring. “The scepter,” she reasoned. “You’re attuning him to be fully raised into undeath.”
Sylora looked to the forest into which Jestry had disappeared. “I already have,” she replied.
Barrabus the Gray didn’t scream out, and that was a victory. The wracking pains had him doubled over. Only his white-knuckled grip on the bridge’s railing kept him from falling onto the cobblestones and writhing uncontrollably.
“The Walk of Barrabus,” Herzgo Alegni said for the twentieth time, and he twanged his fork against the blade of Claw, heightening the sword’s punishing waves of retributive energy. The large tiefling walked over and tugged Barrabus’s hand from the railing, then threw the man to the ground.
“Crawl!” he demanded. “Crawl the length of the bridge, and perhaps I’ll rename it again-no, another one, perhaps. Yes, we’ll call it the Grovel of Barrabus. How much more fitting that will be!”
Barrabus could only look hatefully at his master, and couldn’t respond because he simply couldn’t pry his own teeth apart.
“How dare you?” Alegni asked, and he kicked Barrabus in the ribs.
The man hardly reacted to that impact, though, for the pain of the blow was nothing compared to the vibrations of that awful sword.
Alegni stepped back, sighed, and grabbed the tines of the fork, silencing it and halting the waves. The pain immediately ceased. Sweating, Barrabus crumbled lower to the bridge, gasping for breath, his face pressed against the stones.
“What am I to do with you?” Alegni said, his voice full of regret and sadness-and how Barrabus wanted to cut out his heart for that phony empathy! “I bring you glory and power, and you repay me with this treachery.”
