Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(30)

Sylora looked past the devil to the lich, and Hadencourt turned as well to regard her—fast enough to see a serious and cogent expression on Valindra’s face, albeit briefly, before she tittered and floated away.

Grinning knowingly—the lich wasn’t as insane as she let on—Hadencourt faced Sylora once more.

“Were I a demon of the Abyss, you would be correct in your doubts, I expect,” Hadencourt said. “But consider my heritage. One does not survive the Nine Hells with subterfuge, but with obedience. I accept my place as your second.”

Sylora cocked an eyebrow, drawing a laugh from the devil.

“As your primary scout, then?” Hadencourt bargained. “Surely you will not expect me to submit to the commands of one of these mortal Ashmadai.”

“You will remain separate from the warriors here,” Sylora agreed.

“Well, then, with your leave, I’ll return to my duties on the north road.” He bowed again, and seeing Sylora’s nod, turned to leave.

“If you wish to truly serve as my second,” Sylora remarked, stopping him before he’d gone more than a couple of steps, “you will relieve me of that nuisance Dahlia.”

Hadencourt turned a sly eye Sylora’s way. “Szass Tam was not as definitive regarding her fate.”

“Szass Tam didn’t understand the depths of her traitorous ways, then.”

They exchanged nods.

“With pleasure, my lady Sylora,” Hadencourt the war devil said.

Sylora Salm had enough experience with devils to know he meant it.





“You would deny me this glory?” growled the Ashmadai warrior, Jestry. “I have earned this moment, and you would see me stand back and allow …” He paused, blowing his breath out in angry gasps as he considered the huddled, ash-covered zombies scrabbling through the forest all around them, heading for the walls of Neverwinter. They were some of the multitudes who had died in the cataclysm—the great volcanic eruption that had buried Neverwinter a decade before. They seemed more like the corpses of halflings, or human children, for the molten fires had shriveled their forms.

“We will not win this night,” Sylora replied. “Not fully, at least. All that we send in will be destroyed.”

“I’m not afraid to die!” Jestry proclaimed.

“Are you eager to die, Jestry?”

The Ashmadai warrior went to strict attention. “If in the service of my god Asmodeus—”

“Oh, shut up, fool,” Sylora said.

Jestry blinked in astonishment, and he seemed wounded.

“If Asmodeus thought you of more service in his presence, then he would drag you to the Nine Hells personally, and immediately,” Sylora teased. “He wants you to fight for him, fearlessly, but not to die for him.”

“My lady, an Ashmadai must be willing—”

“Willing and wanting are two different things,” Sylora interrupted. “Pray do sort out that difference, Jestry. I expect you to die in service to me, if it’s necessary. I don’t want you to die in service to me—not yet, at least—and surely I don’t want you to want to die in service to anyone else, and if you do then know that there will be ramifications.” She matched Jestry’s dumbfounded stare with a glower. “If you die, I can raise your corpse,” she explained, and motioned to the shriveled zombies moving in the forest night. “When I come to believe that you will be of more service to me as such, I’ll kill you myself, I promise you.”

Jestry paused for some time before speaking, “Yes, my lady.” His gaze went back to the northwest, to the distant torch lights marking the low wall of Neverwinter.

“Come along,” Sylora bade him, and she started walking the other way, to the south and deeper into the forest.

“My lady?”

“Be quick.”

“But … the battle against Neverwinter?”

“The servants of Szass Tam know their mission,” Sylora assured him, and she kept walking. Jestry, after another longing look to the distant torchlight, scrambled to catch up.






Valindra Shadowmantle’s fiery red eyes gleamed with hunger as the scrabbling zombies passed her by.

She held the magical scepter, and through it willed the zombie legions out of the forest and across the small clearing. They ran on all fours to the distant wall, oblivious to the many arrows reaching out at them.

A fireball lit up the night on the middle of the field, consuming several of the hunched forms, but Valindra, so amused by destruction, could only giggle.

A group comprised of living soldiers ran up beside Valindra, but didn’t pass.

“Would you have us attack, Mistress Valindra?” asked an Ashmadai woman, a young and pretty thing who had until only recently been the consort of Jestry.

“Let them play! Let them play!” Valindra shrieked in response, and the group of Ashmadai shrank back against the unexpected anger in her voice. “Ark-lem … Ark-lem … oh, which way was it? He will help us, he will. Greeth! Greeth! Greeth!”

The Ashmadai woman looked to her companions and rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, Valindra’s magic hurled the woman up in the air and onto the field, where she stumbled, but managed to hold her footing.

“To the wall!” Valindra commanded her. “Go and kill them!”