Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(115)

“What?” Drizzt asked again, coming up to support her.

“Apparently she’s acquainted with my master,” Entreri started to say, but Dahlia cut him short by spitting in his face.

Drizzt grabbed her by the shoulders and held her back. “Dahlia, what is it?” he insisted, keeping his face right in front of hers, trying to bring her back from whatever emotional ledge she’d walked out onto.

“Speak his name again,” Dahlia said to Entreri.

“Herzgo Alegni.”

“Your master, your friend.”

“Hardly. My slaver, my hated enemy,” Entreri assured her as she pressed against Drizzt, trying to get at Entreri.

That seemed to calm Dahlia, so much so that when Drizzt shook her and forced her to look at him again, she said, “Had I known that Aleg …” She stopped and swallowed hard, and seemed incapable of even speaking the name.

Entreri couldn’t believe his good luck. He did indeed recognize the profound pain in Dahlia’s eyes and knew that in simply speaking Alegni’s name, he’d inadvertently made the important pivot needed to lure these two into his personal battle.

“Had I known he led the Netherese, I would have remained at Sylora Salm’s side,” Dahlia said to Drizzt.

Drizzt glanced over his shoulder at Entreri with obvious concern.

Entreri hardly noticed, and didn’t return the look, for now it occurred to him that even being here at this time might well be aiding his hated master. Alegni had the sword, and the sword had Entreri. It could access his innermost thoughts and memories at any time.

Entreri leaped back up upon his nightmare steed. “I’m not your ally in this,” Entreri announced to them. “Though I would love to see Herzgo Alegni dead.”

Drizzt started to respond, but Entreri didn’t wait, kicking his nightmare into a leap and gallop, off into the forest night.

Drizzt spun to face Dahlia, who all but collapsed into his arms.

“I’ll kill him,” she said coldly, without emotion, but when Drizzt lifted her face to his, he saw tears flow down her delicate cheeks.





She was still alive. She couldn’t be! No one should have suffered this amount of pain without expiring.

So much pain, indeed, that Sylora Salm had not even realized that she was still alive for a long, long while. But now she realized the truth of it, and that alone made her realize her pain had subsided a bit.

Sylora gasped and coughed. The Dread Ring was healing her!

She moved her leg back under her, straightening once more, and as her body shifted, she saw her guardian, Valindra Shadowmantle, standing just to the side, holding Sylora’s crooked wand, aiming it Sylora’s way. Valindra called upon the powers of the Dread Ring to heal Sylora’s mortal wounds.

“Valindra,” she mouthed, barely audible, though the lich smiled and seemed to hear. “Thank you.”

Valindra cackled loudly. “Thank you?” she echoed. “I only keep my enemies from having the pleasure.”

Sylora looked at her curiously—more curiously when another form moved up beside Valindra.

The Thayan sorceress understood her doom, in Jestry’s eyes—or eye, for Artemis Entreri’s dagger remained deeply embedded in the other. That one visible eye socket, the orb gouged out by the knife the assassin had later retrieved, flickered with red flame, with the energy of undeath. Sylora had attuned him to the Dread Ring with the scepter she’d created for him, and now the ring had done its job, had brought him back into a state of powerful undeath.

And the creature wasn’t looking upon the broken sorceress fondly.

Valindra cackled louder and spun away, gliding into the dark and smoky night.

Jestry towered over Sylora, reaching down to grab her roughly. He easily lifted her into the air.

Then the powerful undead creature bent her in half backward, shattering her spine, folding her like a brittle parchment. She screamed with her last dying breath, before Jestry slammed her broken form down into the ground and began to stomp on her with his heavy wrapped feet, a thousand times.





The imp growled and twisted and pushed, but to no avail against the strong strands of the magical web that held it up high on the wall.

“You didn’t think I would allow a creature such as yourself to fly in and out of Neverwinter freely, did you?” Effron said, pacing in front of the diminutive devil.

“You err, warlock,” the imp insisted. “My mistress—”

“Arunika,” said Effron, and his recognition seemed to put the devil back on its clawed heels a bit.

“My mistress is powerful, and intolerant of—”

“Shut up,” Effron said quietly, but with such a threat in his voice that the imp complied.

“I don’t intend to hurt you,” Effron explained. “As long as you understand that you now work for me, and for Herzgo Alegni, as well as for your mistress.”

“I am of the Nine Hells, not the Abyss,” the imp said with a little snarl.

“And I can send you back there, in pieces.”

The two stared at each other for many heartbeats then Effron said simply, “Tell me of the events in Neverwinter Wood.”

Later on the next morning, Effron found Herzgo Alegni on his namesake bridge, as usual, and recounted the strange but promising news of the previous night’s events.