Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(66)

“She’s formidable, and grows more so by the day,” Draygo said. “I don’t know how, but she came through the Spellplague and as her mind clears, she seems possessed of magical dweomers from both eras. Sylora Salm has undoubtedly surrounded herself with powerful allies.”

Herzgo Alegni nodded.

“Too powerful for your forces, I fear,” Draygo added.

“I’m not without resources,” Alegni insisted. “I will defeat Sylora Salm.”

Draygo was shaking his bald head with every word. “Too many Shadovar have fallen. Too many years have passed.”

Herzgo Alegni stiffened and squared his shoulders. “You would take me from the field of battle?” he asked.

“I would bolster your cause.”

“More soldiers?” Alegni asked hopefully.

Draygo shrugged as much as nodded. “A few, perhaps. More importantly, I will bolster your ranks with one who better understands the way of the sorceress.”

Alegni’s eyes widened again and he started to shake his head, though he dared not openly oppose Draygo’s words. “Him?” the tiefling angrily retorted, and stammered, because he knew who Draygo Quick had in mind and it was no one Herzgo Alegni wanted anywhere nearby.

“Him,” Draygo calmly replied. “And I need not explain to you the pain should you not properly protect this one.”

Behind Draygo, the shadows coagulated and a thin form appeared, blurred by dark mist.

“He should be with Argyle in study—that was our bargain.”

“Our bargain?” Draygo laughed. “Our bargain is whatever I tell you it is. Your title is wholly my doing, and so I can undo it. I can undo everything … with a word. You wanted him. Indeed, you went to great lengths to bring him along.”

“That was a long time ago.” The regret rang thick in Alegni’s voice.

“Yes,” Draygo replied, “a long time ago, when you thought he would be strong of arm and a great warrior. Your contempt for warlocks—”

“Not contempt,” Alegni interrupted. “Nay, I understand and appreciate the power of dark magic.”

“But you relish the power of the sword. That is your failing, I fear. Ah, but it matters not. You’re being watched very carefully now, Herzgo Alegni, and by powers who grow more impatient with you than I. Secure the whole of Neverwinter Wood, and drive out the forces of Thay.”

Alegni knew he couldn’t push further, that there was no debate to be found here, and he bowed and accepted the edict.

“He’s smart, he’s powerful, and he knows your enemy,” Draygo assured him.

“He’s … I cannot look upon him.”

“Does he disgust you? Does his infirmity insult the great Herzgo Alegni, who could surely take him in his bare hands and snap his spine in half?”

Alegni ground his teeth and tried hard to steady his breathing.

“You will consult with him. You will listen to his words of wisdom. You will complete this mission successfully and soon. We have other business to attend, and I’ll not hold my forces here in Neverwinter Wood another decade. Nor will I have Sylora’s Dread Ring come to fruition. I hold you personally responsible to stop it. Know that most of all.”

“Yes, Master.”

Draygo Quick stared at him for a bit longer then slowly turned and walked away, the shadows gathering around him as he went. Barely a few strides away, his form became so blurred as to be indistinguishable, and he was gone, melting back into the Shadowfell.

Herzgo Alegni closed his eyes and brought a hand up to rub his face, feeling weary.

“You truly can’t even bear to look upon me,” came a scratchy and whiny voice from the same area where Draygo Quick had disappeared.

Alegni didn’t have to open his eyes to know the identity of the speaker. It was Effron the Twisted, of course, Draygo Quick’s understudy, who should have been at study with Argyle—at study with Argyle forever, or at least until Herzgo Alegni was dead of old age.

“Can you not even look upon me?” the newcomer asked, and Alegni opened his eyes to regard the young tiefling, who firmed his chin and lifted it.

Alegni knew him to be more than twenty years of age, but he looked like a young teenager. Frail and thin, so very thin, his eyes, one red, one blue, barely reached the top of Alegni’s broad chest. He sported ramlike horns, like Alegni’s, lifting from mid-scalp forward then rolling around in a tight outside circle and looping back, tapering to a point that just jutted forward of the front bend. His hair was black, shot with purple, swept back and hanging scraggly around his painfully thin and twisted shoulders. This battered creature had suffered great trauma, and just looking at him now reminded Alegni that he should not be alive. His left shoulder jutted out behind him, his useless and withered left arm hung limply down his back, swaying as he walked.

He wore what seemed more like a woman’s slip than a wizard’s robe. The clingy material emphasized his bony frame, his jutting ribcage, his narrow hip bones. He carried a black bone wand in his right hand, and constantly worked it in circles around his fingers. Yes, Alegni remembered that, too.

“I do so always enjoy the look upon your face when first you glance upon me,” Effron the Twisted said. It was obviously a lie, for the young tiefling struggled to hold his composure and keep the pain from his thin face.