Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(32)

Artemis Entreri didn’t even smile in response, just kept up his impeccable offensive barrage, kept Jermander on his heels.

Ratsis was just about to order his remaining spider to shift its webbing attack to the newcomer when he and the Shifter heard Jermander’s claim that this unexpected addition to the fight was Alegni’s man.

The two glanced at each other and Ratsis swallowed hard.

“We are not in accordance with the wishes of a Netherese Lord?” the Shifter whispered breathlessly.

Her answer had to wait as a low feline growl filled the air.

The Shifter’s eyes widened as she looked past Ratsis, her expression prompting Ratsis to turn likewise, affording them both the view of a large black panther standing atop the ledge where the drow had flown. A large black panther seeming very intent on them.

“Guenhwyvar!” Dahlia cried, her voice somewhat muffled by the stubborn webbing.

Ratsis’s gaze darted from the cat to Dahlia to Jermander and Alegni’s man and back to the Shifter, who was shaking her head.

“I will expect my payment in full,” she said, and she hustled away into the shadows—and back to her homeworld.

Ratsis glanced around again. Three of his mercenary group lay dead, and the value of Dahlia had therefore increased to him personally. But caught between health and wallet, Ratsis soon enough realized the price he would almost surely pay if he tried to follow the enticing course of his greed.

He sent his remaining spider to intercept the cat, but held no reasonable hope that the arachnid would slow this powerful beast.

He glanced again at Dahlia, wrapped and ready for delivery.

So close.

But not now, Ratsis realized, and he was glad that he, too, had learned the difficult art of shadow-stepping.

“Alegni’s man!” Jermander yelled again, barely dodging a sword thrust that got past his own blade and almost took him in the hip.

“You keep saying that as if you know what it means,” Entreri teased and taunted.

“I know Alegni!”

“You know what he wishes you to know.” Across came the sword, taking Jermander’s blocking weapon aside, and in stepped the small killer with a halfturn and wide slash of his dagger, and then a backhanded stab back across which almost got Jermander in the face as he tried to counter.

“Effron employed me!” Jermander argued, and he tried to keep the panic out of his voice—though unsuccessfully, he realized by the grin on the face of Alegni’s champion.

“Effron employed me as well,” said his opponent, “to kill you.”

Jermander stared at him dumbfounded, but not before wisely backing out of reach.

“He is in love with Dahlia,” Entreri explained and leaped forward, leading with a wild, circular flurry of his long sword which had Jermander flailing all around to keep up.

And the small man tossed his dirk—he didn’t throw it at Jermander, but merely tossed it up before him, close enough for Jermander to snatch it from the air. The shade warrior almost did just that, but realized the diversion for what it was and protected against a sword thrust instead.

He should have protected from something else, though he couldn’t know it, for indeed Entreri came forward with the expected thrust, half-turning once more, but only, Jermander soon realized, so that he could hide the movement of his free hand, down to his belt buckle and suddenly forward.

At first, Jermander thought he had been punched in the chest, and he staggered back a few steps, working his sword defensively. Only when he realized that Entreri wasn’t pursuing, only when he noted the smug look on the small man’s face, did he begin to understand, and he glanced down at his chest to see a small knife buried up to its hilt.

He tried to speak out, but found that he had no air in his lungs.

Jermander fought against the dizziness and breathlessness. Strangely, he felt no pain. He steadied himself and assumed a posture to continue, but as he expanded his focus once more and looked to his opponent, he saw that the man had his dirk in hand once more—had he caught it before it had ever hit the ground?—and now cocked his arm, ready to throw.

Jermander tried to clutch up into a smaller target and readied his sword for a block.

Entreri pumped his arm and the warrior dodged, then dodged again with a second fake.

Each movement brought on more dizziness, waves of disorientation. Jermander told himself that it was time to flee, and he, too, started that shadowshift, to return to the other world, the Shadowfell.

But shadowshifting took concentration, and this time, Entreri didn’t fake.

Jermander felt the profound thud as the dirk plunged in beside the knife. He saw the man stalking in at him as his body went numb, and then a gray mist filled his vision.

For a moment, Jermander thought he was slipping away into the Shadowfell. The sensation and the view seemed much the same.

A blinding flash ended that thought, ended all thought, as a sword creased his skull.





THE GENDER OPPRESSED





Driders are not the quietest of creatures, particularly when a score of them, armed and armored and anxious for battle, scrabble along rocky cavern floors and walls.

Something was afoot, Yerrininae believed. He could feel it, and it was a tangible sensation, not just a gut instinct.

The air was colder—unnaturally colder.

The drider leader drove his charges on, rushing around blind bends in the corridor recklessly. He had sent two scouts up front, and he knew now—he just knew—that the pair were soon to encounter . . . something.