Gauntlgrym (Neverwinter #1)(74)

Indeed she tried, and he had to constantly change the speed of his rotations to block the myriad angles presented by the similarly spinning flails—and worse, on more than one of those blocks, the elf’s weapon presented an electric shock, some quite powerful, one nearly ripping the sword from his hand.

But he held on, and he used that unfortunate sting to make it seem as if he couldn’t, teasingly interrupting his circular flow.

On came the elf—just as Barrabus reversed his momentum and stabbed straight ahead.

He had her awkwardly dodging, and he pressed all the harder, stabbing and slashing with fury, keeping her on her heels, betting that one of his blades would find her flesh before his momentum played out and his weariness from the flurry allowed her an advantage.

Just when he thought he had her she threw herself backward in a perfect tuck and roll and retreated around the trunk of a thick oak.

Barrabus faked a move to the other side to intercept, and instead followed her directly. He smiled, thinking the Thayan had finally guessed wrong.



He didn’t catch her as he pursued her around the tree!

Had she hesitated, Dahlia would have surely felt the Gray’s sword stabbing her in the back, and a lesser warrior would have fallen right there.

But Dahlia sprinted forward instead of trying to turn and block. She reconstructed her staff in two quick strides and planted it, leaping up its length, inverting up above it and hooking her legs over a branch, tugging her weapon up behind her and just ahead of her pursuing enemy.

She gained her footing and rushed along the branches, leaping and sprinting in perfect balance, even jumping out to a second tree. She tried to spot the Gray, but he was gone—simply vanished.

She ran out to the end of a branch and jumped down to some brush, converting her weapon once more into a tri-staff and lashing out with wide-sweeping strokes even as she touched down in case he was waiting for her.

Dahlia silently cursed herself for allowing the break in the fighting. She was on her opponent’s terms once again, and he knew she was ready for him. She had no idea where he’d run off to.

She knew she was in trouble—she’d heard that this assassin had caught and killed many Ashmadai who never saw it coming. She had to keep moving, and had to keep up her assault on any potential hiding spot she passed by.

If she could only locate him … if she could only get face to face with him again!

She spotted movement ahead, off to the side. Even knowing how unlikely it was to be the Gray, she went that way and had to work hard to suppress her relief when she came upon an Ashmadai patrol.

“Dahlia!” two of the nine said together, and the whole contingent came to rapt attention.

“The Gray is about,” she told them. “Be alert.”

“Stay with us!” one said, the desperation in her voice betraying the female tiefling’s desire to avoid the Gray.

Dahlia looked around the quiet forest, nodding.



From the shelter of a pine tree, Barrabus the Gray watched that exchange.

He was no less relieved than Dahlia that their encounter had ended.

He would have to get her by surprise, he thought.

Or he would have to stay away from her.





THE TIME TO ACT


COMING HOME TO MENZOBERRANZAN AFTER YEARS ON THE SURFACE always surprised Jarlaxle, for though the World Above had changed dramatically in the past seven decades, the City of Spiders seemed locked in time—a better time, as far as Jarlaxle was concerned. The Spellplague had caused a bit of an uproar there, much like the War of the Spider Queen and the Time of Troubles before it, but when the lightning bolts and fireballs had settled, when the screaming of wizards and priests made insane by the shattering of the Weave and the fall of gods had died away, Menzoberranzan remained the same.

House Baenre, Jarlaxle’s birthplace and blood family, still reigned as First House, and it was there the drow mercenary ventured, to meet with the Archmage of Menzoberranzan, his oldest brother, Gromph.

Jarlaxle lifted his hand to knock on Gromph’s door, but before he even managed that, he heard, “I’ve been expecting you,” and the door magically swung open.

“Your scouts are efficient,” Jarlaxle said, stepping into the room. Gromph sat off to the side and across the way, peering through a magical lens at a parchment unrolled on one of his desks.

“No scouts,” the archmage said without looking up. “We have felt the tremors trembling in the west. You fear that your profitable city of Luskan will be the target of the wakening primordial this time, no doubt.”

“Rumors speak of an ash field outside of the last line of devastation.”

Gromph looked up at him with impatience. “Such a field would have been the obvious result of the eruption.”

“Not from the eruption,” the mercenary clarified. “A field of magical ash.”

“Ah yes, the Dread Ring of this Sylora Salm creature, then,” said Gromph. He shook his head and gave a wicked little laugh. “A wretched thing.”

“Even by drow standards.”

That remark caught Gromph off guard. He tilted his head and it took him a long while to manage a smile at the observation.

“An efficient way to raise an army, though,” Jarlaxle added.

Gromph shook his head again and turned back to his work, an opened spellbook into which he had been transcribing a newly learned spell.