Neverwinter: Neverwinter Saga, Book II

by Salvatore, R. A.

  Entreri answered with a nod as he considered the reasoning, and the possibilities.

  “Killing Dahlia, who vows to kill Sylora, wouldn’t please your master, then,” said Drizzt.

  “You would ally with us?” a skeptical Entreri asked. “I witnessed your work on the Shadovar patrol north of Neverwinter.”

  “Ally with a Shadovar, a Netherese pig?” Dahlia replied, equally incredulous. “Never that!”

  “Artemis Entreri is neither,” Drizzt assured her. “Why not, then?” he asked both of them.

  “It’s often claimed that the enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Entreri replied with a shrug.

  “Are you still my enemy?” Drizzt asked him.

  Entreri laughed a bit as he considered that. “I grew bored with you more than a century ago. To think me your enemy would be to think I care about you one way or the other.”

  “And for me?” asked Dahlia. “You just admitted you plan to kill me.”

  “That can wait.”

  “The enemy of my enemy will be my enemy again?”

  Entreri smiled wickedly. “We shall see.”

  Drizzt turned from him to Dahlia. “It’s settled, then?”

  “I intend to kill Sylora,” Dahlia stated flatly. “And I intend to kill any who try to hinder me from experiencing that pleasure.”

  “And what of those who would aid you?” Entreri teased. Dahlia turned and walked away.

  “Well met again, Drizzt Do’Urden,” Entreri said to the drow, and he motioned down at his dropped blades.

  Drizzt glanced at Dahlia, then, and despite himself, shook his head.

  “I will not kill her,” Entreri promised. “Nor you.”

  Drizzt eyed him with clear doubt.

  “I hate my master, while you merely bore me,” Entreri said.

  “And Dahlia?”

  “She’s my counterpart, the champion of my master’s enemy, as I am my master’s champion. And so we were tasked with our battle, a proxy battle. It really is nothing personal.”

  “So you would say,” Drizzt started to reply—started, but the words caught in his throat as Artemis Entreri came forward suddenly, reaching to his belt as he lunged. That buckle became a knife and that knife beat Drizzt to the drow’s throat.

  A heartbeat later, Entreri looked into Drizzt’s lavender eyes, stepped back, and dropped his knife, which showed no blood. He held up his hands. “Now you can trust me,” he said.

  It took Drizzt several heartbeats to even sort out what had just occurred, and he silently chastised himself for allowing his guard to slip, for forgetting the continuing danger presented by the skilled Artemis Entreri. He could have been murdered, then and there, because his heart had been looking backward, and no doubt doing so with a stilted view of what had once been.

  He looked at Entreri then, standing unarmed and at ease. He looked down at Entreri’s buckle knife, an ample weapon with which Entreri might have cut out Drizzt’s throat.

  Drizzt chuckled and turned away from Entreri once more to follow Dahlia. He chastised himself again for being so foolish, but he applauded himself, or was greatly relieved at least, that he’d been right. The fact that he was still drawing breath proved he’d been right.

  This man from his past was not his enemy.

  Artemis Entreri.

  Artemis Entreri!

  The name resonated deeply within the soul of the assassin. His given name, that long ago moniker that had seemingly been lost to the ages, as the person who had once been Artemis Entreri had likewise been lost to the ages.

  His thoughts went back to a long-ago day in Calimport, a day Entreri had come to cherish as the moment of his escape. Not from Drizzt Do’Urden, whom he’d thought dead. Not from Jarlaxle and the drow elves, for he was certain they would return for him, and they had. Not an escape from Herzgo Alegni, surely, a tiefling who likely wasn’t even born at that time.

  Nay, on that long-ago day, Artemis Entreri had escaped from the man who had proven to be his greatest enemy, his most dangerous foe.

  On that long-ago day, Entreri had found a moment of mercy, and mercy on a priest no less, in exchange for a promise that the priest would behave according to his professed tenets, which promised benefit to the poor of the desert port city.

  On that long-ago day, Artemis Entreri had escaped from himself, his past, his self-loathing.

  And he’d come to look at life differently, for just a short time, until the drow mercenaries of Bregan D’aerthe returned.

  All of those memories flooded through him in a burst of confusion.

  The irony that it had been Drizzt Do’Urden who had revived the name of Artemis Entreri, and who had revived something else, something far more profound, was not lost on the assassin.

  He noted that the drow kept his hands on the hilts of his blades as he walked off to catch up to Dahlia, and Entreri had no doubt that, should he retrieve his own blades now and go after Drizzt, he would again face that legendary barrage of spinning scimitars.

  But Entreri had no such intention, of course. He’d assured Drizzt of his intent by surrendering the lethal advantage, and even before that, Entreri had known from Drizzt’s eyes, from the moment of the drow ranger’s recognition of him, that Drizzt had not been saddened by the sight of him.

  Artemis Entreri was glad of that expression, and not simply because his own foolish plan had failed, and if Drizzt had thought different of their meeting, or had not recognized him, he would surely have been killed. No, it was more than that, much more. Indeed, Drizzt couldn’t begin to know the level of relief that flooded through the tormented man even then.

  And as an added benefit, a plan was truly formulating in Entreri’s thoughts, a way to be rid of Sylora, then use the moment of joy to facilitate an introduction between Herzgo Alegni and Drizzt Do’Urden, and with the lovely Dahlia thrown in against Alegni as well.

  In that moment, Artemis Entreri, a man who had for decades been known as Barrabus the Gray, felt something he’d not experienced in those same decades:

  Hope.

  HE’S JOINED WITH MY ENEMIES?” HERZGO ALEGNI ASKED WITH obvious doubt, and he half-drew his sword, trying to find some hint of confirmation from the sentient blade. He stood on his namesake bridge in Neverwinter, the sun low in the western sky in front of him.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not,” Effron replied cryptically, drawing a glare from Alegni, who was in no mood for such games.

  “Barrabus has joined forces with the drow and Dahlia,” Effron said. “It would appear the Thayan sorceress’s champion returns as her mortal enemy.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Why would you send me to follow Barrabus if you weren’t going to believe my report?” the warlock shot back.

  On Alegni’s command, Effron had used his spells to covertly follow the assassin into the forest. A creature of shadow, both because of his heritage and training, even the clever Barrabus failed to notice the surveillance. And from afar, Effron had witnessed the exchange between Barrabus, the elf, and the drow.

  “Perhaps Lady Dahlia seeks alliance,” Effron offered.

  “Dahlia, who murdered my patrol,” Alegni reminded him sourly, and Effron quickly backed away. “Barrabus has joined forces with Dahlia after she murdered my patrol! And more than a dozen other Shadovar besides.”

  “I didn’t mean that the fool Barrabus should go unpunished,” Effron was quick to reply. “Perhaps after he kills Sylora, you can remind him of his failings.”

  Herzgo Alegni turned away and walked to the edge of the bridge to regard the last colors of daylight. The simple truth of it was that if Barrabus brought him the head of Sylora Salm, he would hardly punish the man.

  A grin widened on Alegni’s face as he considered his stealthy champion, and remembered all of those times over the last decades when Barrabus the Gray had exceeded expectations so completely Alegni had to work hard to keep from openly marveling at the man.

  If Barrabus returned to him bearing the head
of Sylora, and the head of her champion, Dahlia, as he expected would likely happen, then Alegni would surely reward the assassin.

  Of course, if Barrabus failed him, whether he was killed or not in the attempt, Herzgo Alegni could use Effron’s startling information as an excuse to torment the man even more.

  For an instant, Alegni almost hoped Barrabus would fail. Only an instant, though, for defeating Sylora Salm was surely the greatest prize of all, and one that would gain him accolades from his superiors in Shade Enclave, would perhaps silence even the wretched Draygo Quick for a while.

  The Netherese lord glanced back at Effron as the light diminished in the west, and that dimness seemed somehow to help complete the crooked and misshapen warlock’s form, to make him seem more substantial and less … defective.

  In that moment, Herzgo Alegni wished he didn’t have to loathe this one so greatly, wished that the mere sight of Effron didn’t turn his stomach so.

  When Herzgo Alegni walked onto the bridge that bore his name, the villagers of Neverwinter typically avoided that route. There were two other bridges, after all, though neither matched the grandeur and width of this one, and even though Alegni and his band had been declared heroes of the city, few were comfortable around the tiefling, and fewer still would dare to interrupt him in any case.

  So when a small form, a woman it seemed, bending low against the wind and with her red cloak and hood pulled tight, stepped onto the bridge and headed his way, Alegni eyed her curiously, then with grinning recognition.

  She didn’t slow.

  “Take a different bridge,” Effron called out, and lifted his wand at the approaching figure.

  Herzgo Alegni grabbed the young warlock by the forearm and forcefully pushed his arm back down. Effron looked over at him in shock, but Alegni shook his head.

  The woman neared, and pulled back her cowl, showing her curly red locks.

  “Welcome, Arunika,” Alegni greeted.

  “What news, Herzgo Alegni?” she replied. “Your posture tells me that the word is good.”

  Alegni laughed at that. Arunika had told him she was an observer, after all, and that knowledge was her true power.

  “Have you met Effron?” Alegni asked, deflecting her inquiry. “A warlock strong beyond his years.”

  Arunika glanced at him with that inviting, disarming smile of hers, and Alegni’s face screwed up with surprise when he saw Effron—Effron the insufferable!—return that look with a sincere smile and open expression of his own.

  Alegni glanced back at Arunika and scrutinized her in a different light then.

  “What news?” Arunika pressed. “You just came in from the forest, I’ve been told, and came straight to speak with our guardian here.” She motioned at Alegni, and flashed him a rather wicked smile and a wink.

  Effron seemed truly flustered, and that, too, had Alegni off-balance. When ever before had this cynical and smart young tiefling ever teetered in disarray?

  “It’s no news as of yet,” Alegni answered, and Arunika looked at him doubtfully, and a bit, he understood, as if she’d been wounded by his lack of trust.

  Herzgo Alegni thought back to the night before, to their amazing tryst.

  “Hopeful signs, though,” he said. He glanced over at Effron and waved the warlock away, then turned to face Arunika more directly. When Effron didn’t immediately depart, Alegni cast him a sour glance.

  “We may have found unexpected allies in our battle with the Thayans,” Alegni admitted to Arunika as Effron shambled off the bridge. “Her champion returns from the north.”

  “Her champion? Would that not bolster—”

  “Former champion,” Alegni corrected. “This warrior, Dahlia, returns with a vendetta against Sylora, it would seem, and brings beside her a drow ranger of great renown.”

  “A drow ranger? Drizzt Do’Urden?”

  “Yes, and now my man Barrabus has joined with them on their path to rid us of Sylora Salm. If they succeed, if they can behead this Thayan beast that has infected Neverwinter Wood, we will claim a great victory.”

  Arunika stared at him for a few moments, then matched his hopeful grin. “That’s quite a trio of power,” she said. “And likely, Sylora’s champion will know of the Thayan defenses and how to get through them.”

  “Barrabus almost rid me of the witch by himself,” Alegni agreed. “With those two beside him, I’ve no doubt that Sylora Salm will soon be dead. Barrabus is an annoyance, to be sure, but a useful one, else I would have destroyed him long ago.”

  “It’s good that you didn’t, then,” said Arunika. She paused for a few heartbeats then smiled once more and turned to leave. As she lifted her hood back in place, she whispered, “Will you join me later that we might celebrate this hopeful news?”

  Herzgo Alegni had every intention of doing just that, whether Arunika invited him or not.

  Sylora sat in her chamber in the tree-tower, impatiently tap-tapping the crooked wand on the chair’s arm. She looked across at Arunika’s messenger, the imp hopping back flips in front of the hearth for no apparent reason.

  The sorceress had already known that Dahlia and the drow ranger were on their way. She’d communed with devils of her own, and so had learned of Hadencourt’s fate. Sylora understood the power of the malebranche and its ever-present allies, and so she understood that Dahlia had found a capable companion indeed to have so defeated that troupe.

  But now, with the news from Arunika, Sylora understood that the danger had grown substantially.

  The sorceress stood up quickly, and the imp responded by halting its spinning for a bit and staring at her curiously. “Where is she?” Sylora asked, pacing over and throwing another log on the fire.

  “In Neverwinter, silly wizardess,” the imp replied.

  “Not Arunika!” Sylora snapped back, though she realized the imp already knew that and was just being clever.

  “Dahlia on her way …” the imp started, but Sylora cut the tiny creature short with a glower.

  “Not Dahlia,” Sylora said evenly. “I know where Dahlia is. You just told me where Dahlia is.”

  “Then why ask, Lady of Silly?”

  Before Sylora could respond—and she intended to respond with a killing bolt of Dread Ring energy—there came a shuffling noise from the stairwell, and both the sorceress and the imp turned to watch Valindra enter the room. Another form lurked behind her on the stairs, in the shadows.

  “We should strike the city this night,” Valindra said, her voice surprisingly clear, her eyes remaining focused. “They’re battered from our first assault and even more so by the damage and carnage caused by the ambassador’s umber hulks. They’re vulnerable and we shouldn’t let them get their footing back on solid ground.”

  As impressed as she was by Valindra’s clarity of thought and expression, Sylora shook her head throughout the speech. “Not yet.”

  “Delay favors the Netherese.”

  “It cannot be helped. We have more pressing business.” Sylora looked over at the imp.

  “Dahlia again?” Valindra asked with clear exasperation.

  Sylora had to pause and consider that for a bit before responding.

  Valindra’s mental instability seemed fast fading. The ambassador had been working on Valindra quite extensively, helping her as the drow psionicist had aided her in the early days of her affliction. Only more effectively, Sylora knew. She was thinking in leaps now, instead of merely reacting to the situation in front of her, and more importantly, she sold her advice with more than mere words but with emotion and even cleverness, like the dramatic effect in her response to Dahlia.

  “Don’t underestimate her.”

  “As Hadencourt did?” Valindra asked. She’d been at Sylora’s side when they received the news of the malebranche’s defeat. “He’s a devil, Sylora, and so thought himself so elevated above the mere mortals he could act foolishly. So he did, and so he’s paid for his mistake.”

  “As you do now,” Sylora warned.

&
nbsp; “Not at all,” Valindra replied with confidence. “I’ve witnessed Dahlia’s martial prowess and know it to be considerable. I also know I can defeat her. Magic is stronger than the blade … or than that stick she spins with such abandon. I would think Sylora Salm would know that.”

  “She has an ally, a ranger of great reputation.”

  “And you have me.”

  “She has another ally,” Sylora went on, again turning to the imp. “The Netherese champion has joined with her. Those three, at least, are coming for us, and we must expect that Barrabus the Gray will bring along Shadovar reinforcements.”

  “I do not fear them,” Valindra announced.

  “But nor will I ignore them,” said Sylora. “They are coming. They are likely nearing our position even now. And so we’ll prepare for them. Keep the Ashmadai close—double the guards at the walls and let the zombies roam the forest near to Ashenglade. You watch them, Valindra. You see through their eyes. We’ll know when these would-be assassins come into our fortress, and we will destroy them. How much weaker will the Netherese be when their champion’s head is returned to them?”

  “Or when their champion is raised by the power of the Dread Ring and turns to fight against them?” Valindra replied, and that brought a grin to Sylora’s face.

  Valindra turned back to the stairwell and lifted her hand and beckoned, silently calling. “As you requested,” she said when the crinkled ashen zombie crept in through the door.

  Sylora had indeed asked Valindra to bring along one of their undead pets, and she suppressed her revulsion at having the diminutive thing in her private room. With every step, the wretched little creature left ashen footprints, and the smell of burned flesh was a perpetual condition for these monsters. A decade had passed since the cataclysm, and still the zombie legions reeked with the foul aroma.

  Behind the sorceress, the imp snorted and let out a little shriek.

  Sylora ignored the tiny devil, focusing on the zombie and the sensation in her wand because of the proximity of the creature. She’d felt this before, but from afar, and now with Ashenglade’s first round of construction completed, the wand, the Dread Ring, had compelled her to further investigate.