Charon's Claw (Neverwinter #3)(69)

And with that, Drizzt sprinted along toward the far end of the bridge, then went over the rail and dropped from sight.

“I will take myself,” Dahlia growled, and she threw her cape up over her head and became a giant raven, then issued a great cawing cry to those approaching Shadovar, a cackle of challenge.

“Just flee, you idiot,” Entreri said to her, and he threw down his token and brought forth his nightmare steed. He gathered his sword and leaped onto the hell horse’s back. He reflexively looked for his dagger for just a moment, before taking satisfaction in the memory of his throw, in knowing that his dagger had gone to the Shadowfell with Alegni, had gone to the Shadowfell lodged in Herzgo Alegni’s gut.

“Perhaps you should ride with me,” Dahlia the Crow said, her voice sharper and more brusque in tone in that bird form. As she spoke, she indicated the far end of the bridge, and the host of Shadovar gathering there, as well. “It would seem that Herzgo Alegni has ultimately trapped us and not the other way around.”

Artemis Entreri ignored that last remark, considering his options. He could get into the river safely with the nightmare easing the fall, as it had done in leaping out of Sylora Salm’s treelike tower.

Or he could indeed go with Dahlia—but did he trust that she would actually fly away? Her rage bordered on insanity. The way she had thrown herself at Alegni, the spittle in her every word now . . . there was something more here, some profound scar that Entreri had not yet deciphered.

But one that seemed all too familiar to the man.

He was about to dismiss his mount and fly off with Dahlia when the decision was made for him, for in the square back the way they had come, a great commotion arose, a blowing of horns and cries of battle.

Both Entreri and Dahlia turned around to witness the spectacle, as on came the citizens of Neverwinter, Jelvus Grinch at their lead, weapons bared and fists pumping.

“Revolt,” Entreri mouthed. He turned back to Dahlia, but she was already away, taking flight and soaring for the battle.

Entreri kicked his nightmare into a gallop, fiery hooves clicking loudly on the bridge stones. Perhaps Herzgo Alegni’s final moments had escaped him, but more importantly, he had escaped Herzgo Alegni!

Effron glanced around in shock as the folk of Neverwinter descended upon the square, tearing into the flanks of his force before they even understood that an enemy was upon them.

How could the citizens have known of this moment? How could they have been so prepared to seize this unexpected opportunity?

It made no sense to him.

He surveyed the scene, trying to gauge whether he could lead the Shadovar to victory.

Then he noted the approach of the crow—of Dahlia!—and with that dangerous assassin close behind. And there was that drow, standing on a stone in the low river, picking his way to the edge of the bridge abutment and carrying Alegni’s sword.

Too many variables, he thought, shaking his head. Too much chaos and unpredictability. He looked at the giant crow, now descending his way, and he so badly wanted to lash out at her with his magic.

But that wretched panther had taken so much out of him.

Effron stepped into the shadows, back to the Shadowfell.





The wizard Glorfathel glanced to the dwarf at his side.



“Not worth the losses,” Ambergris said. “Draygo’ll be waiting to hear yer explaining.”

Glorfathel agreed with a nod, then motioned to the other Shadovar nobles, the commanders of this force, offering his permission.

Only Netherese nobles and warriors of high standing had been granted the shadowstep, but those who possessed the ability used it, and they were, invariably, the leaders of the various brigades, the commanders and the champions.

The commoner shades left behind found themselves sorely outnumbered and disorganized—and battling a group of hardy folk who were fighting for their homes.

And on came the man many knew as Barrabus, once their leading champion, and now cutting them down with abandon.

And on came Dahlia, once their opposing champion, sometimes a ferocious giant crow, other times the elf warrior they had once and still so greatly feared.

Had Alegni prevailed on the bridge, the city would be theirs. Had Effron and the others not fled, they might have had a chance.

Glorfathel recalled Draygo Quick’s instructions, and the decision was not a difficult one. He didn’t shadowstep, as had Effron, but instead enacted a gate in the middle of the square, a purplish-black glowing door inviting his charges to flee the battle.

“Meself ’ll call ’em in,” Ambergris assured him.

At that point, Glorfathel hardly seemed to care, and indeed, he was the first to use his dimensional gate.

But certainly not the last.

Many shades died, many fled through the gate or even out over the city’s walls, and many others, particularly those on the far side of the bridge, surrendered as the battle of Neverwinter quickly became a rout.

Fighting on the side of the Neverwinter garrison was Amber Gristle O’Maul, of the Adbar O’Mauls, for with a simple roll of one of the black pearls on her enchanted string of pearls, the dwarf had turned the appearance of shadowstuff into the dirt of the road. She knew who would win, obviously, and Ambergris always preferred to be on the winning side.

In the middle of the battle stood Arunika, sword in hand. More than one Shadovar leaped at the unremarkable woman, thinking her an easy kill, only to fall dead a heartbeat later.