Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(72)

The drow mercenary blew a heavy sigh, just as hesitant and filled with even more reluctance and dread. He’d spent considerable time researching the disaster of his journey with the Thayan sorceress, and had spent considerable coin as well, determined to pay them back for that awful deception. Jarlaxle didn’t much like being played for a fool, and while he was not the most compassionate of persons, the carnage that had been wrought on Neverwinter had offended him greatly.

But he’d let it go in the end, even though he’d garnered some good information, and even though he knew Athrogate wanted nothing more than to rectify the great wrong he’d enacted in pulling that lever. Jarlaxle had let it go because the thought of going back to that dark, and surely utterly destroyed place hadn’t set well with him at all, and because he wasn’t even sure how he might ever find Gauntlgrym again. The cataclysm had collapsed the one tunnel he knew of, and his scouts had not found a way around it.

But the ghosts had come forth, claiming, so said Athrogate, that the beast had awakened once more, and indeed, tremors had begun to shake the Sword Coast North.

Perhaps the primordial would take aim at Luskan, a city still at least marginally profitable to Jarlaxle’s Bregan D’aerthe.

A third sigh left the mercenary’s lips. It was time to go home, and he never looked forward to that.





CHAMPIONS


BARRABUS WATCHED THE UNFOLDING BATTLE WITH GREAT INTEREST, HIS first view of the elf woman who was champion of the Ashmadai. He knew the champion’s opponent, a relatively competent warrior by the name of Arklin—but anyone who hadn’t seen Arklin fight before would hardly have called him competent. It seemed as if he was swinging his sword under water, so sluggish were its movements in comparison to the spinning flail of the elf. She hit Arklin repeatedly on the shoulders and arms, every blow painful, but none lethal.

She was toying with him.

Barrabus watched intently, trying to measure the rhythm of her movements. He didn’t like how his fighting style, sword and main-gauche, matched up against her twin weapons and their longer reach. He’d successfully faced off against notable two-handed fighters before, but swords, scimitars, and axes were not the same as those exotic spinning sticks. The angles of attack of more conventional weapons were more predictable, and a solid metal blade was not nearly as able to escape a well-executed block as her weapons.

He winced as the elf finally moved in for the inevitable kill. As Arklin lunged ahead with an awkward thrust, she spun her left-hand weapon around the stabbing blade, yanked it out wide, and moved forward inside it. Her right-hand weapon spun up behind her head, coming forward, but to Barrabus’s surprise and Arklin’s doom, the elf somehow reconnected those tethered poles into a single staff as they came around. As the pole leveled with Arklin’s head, the elf warrior tucked her hand tight against her shoulder and drove forward with her weight behind the strike. The end of her four-foot staff caught Arklin right under the chin and the warrior elf continued forward, driving the doomed Netherese back and to the ground. She ran right over him and yanked hard again with her left hand as she did, taking the sword from the gasping Arklin’s hand and throwing it far aside.

She fell into a forward roll. Barrabus again had to nod in admiration when she came up, spinning to rush right back at the fallen Netherese. She held not two weapons, not a staff and a flail, but a single eight-foot pole.

Clutching his throat and trying futilely to roll away, Arklin presented an easy target and the elf planted the end of that pole just above the top of Arklin’s collarbone and vaulted up into the air, her weight pressing the pole into the squirming, shrieking Shadovar.

A blast of crackling lightning blurred Barrabus’s vision as it shocked Arklin’s prostrate form. When the elf lightly touched down to her feet on the far side of the fallen warrior, she skipped away, paying his still form no more heed.

Barrabus had seen her, so he had an advantage, he told himself as he started through the forest to intercept her.



The eight-foot full length of Kozah’s Needle made moving through the forest more difficult, so Dahlia folded her staff into a thicker, four-foot walking stick. She needed to remain agile.

He was out there.

The bodies of Ashmadai warriors proved it. Certainly their Netherese opponents had many capable fighters, but the recent kills, so clean, so precise, spoke of the mysterious man who had stepped from the shadows to rain death upon the Ashmadai. The ferocious warrior cultists of Asmodeus, who proclaimed their greatest hope to be dying—even to be raised as undead warriors—for the cause, spoke of the Netherese assassin with a noticeable tremor.

And all of that, of course, had only prompted Dahlia to go out there in hopes of encountering this shade herself.

She let her instincts take over. She didn’t try to pick out any particular movement, sound, or smell, but let the whole of the environment guide her.

He was close, perhaps stalking her.



Even before he had become something other than strictly human, Barrabus could slip from shadow to concealment to shadow with the very best of Faer?n’s rogues. He needed no elven boots to keep his soft footfalls from the ears of a clumsy human, but with their added benefits, not a creature in the world could hear his approach.

He’d moved with all speed once he spotted the Thayan champion, that striking elf woman with her distinctive weapon. He slowed his pace only as he’d neared the spot, and had lost sight of her only once or twice in that rush. He had to be careful, had to keep obstacles—trees, at least—between himself and the woman.