Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(75)

Whenever the dwarf caught one, he jumped down from the ladder and ran to Jestry—there was no time to tarry and let the umber hulk hide cool. He set one end of the long strip against the naked man, right where the last one had ended, and tightly wrapped it around his body, pulling hard with each turn.

The oil beneath the treated strap sizzled, Jestry’s skin bubbled and burst as he melded with the enchanted and magically treated leather.

“It will heighten his resistance to lightning energy,” the slimy servitor who stood nearby quietly whispered to Valindra, who watched with great amusement.

And turn the blades and dull the thud of Dahlia’s staff, Valindra telepathically replied. She didn’t specifically impart, but was thinking that they should do this to all of the Ashmadai.

Through his servitor, the aboleth disavowed her of that notion, filling her ear with watery whispers explaining the realities of such an unusual ceremony as this. “Five hulks must die for one human to be armored, and in any typical situation, those five would be more valuable by far. Your human champion will not live long, and will never again know a moment without great pain. Were my master to release him from possession now, the agony would kill him. He will be Sylora Salm’s champion only through his zealotry, his willingness, his happiness to die for his cause.”

“But he will hate her for this,” Valindra reasoned as the dwarf’s wrapping reached Jestry’s crotch. “For never again will he know Sylora’s touch, her kiss and her charms.” She gasped, giggled, and blurted, “He is neutered!”

“His focus is singular now,” the servitor explained. “He’s Sylora Salm’s champion and will fight for her until his death. Nothing else will matter to him.”

“How long can he live in this state?”

“A few moons, perhaps a year.”

Valindra continued to marvel at the process as she watched this Ashmadai warrior become something more, something unique and dangerous. The wrappings went tight around his belly, circling up to his chest, to his neck. She wondered about his head and face—how complete would the skin armor suit be?

The smell of burning hair as the treated umber hulk hide wrapped around him showed her, for when the slave dwarves were done, only Jestry’s eyes, nostrils, ears, and mouth remained uncovered.

The servitor moved away from her, moving up to the transformed warrior, for now the aboleth had to focus completely on Jestry, she realized, had to deceive the man so that he could shrug through the agony and hold to his purpose.

One of the dwarves came up to the lich and motioned for her to leave. “Ye best go in the other cave for a bit,” he explained. “It’s to get loud in here, don’t ye doubt.”

Valindra looked at him with disdain, even disgust, but she heeded his words and glided out into the antechamber, where several other Ashmadai guards waited.

“Where is Jestry?” one woman asked.

In reply, a shriek of agony came from the other room. It went on and on, changing in tone from a high-pitched, pain-filled wail to an angry cry to a roar of utter defiance.

“What have you done to him?” another Ashmadai asked angrily.

Valindra stared at him and said nothing for many heartbeats. The zealot, for all his rage, shrank back from that withering glare.

“Would you like to learn first-hand the answer to that question?” Valindra calmly replied, and the man, for all his dedication, for all his willingness to die for his cause, shrank back even more.

After a long, long while, the screaming in the other room at last abated, and the servitor arrived at the door to inform them that the “dressing” was complete. Soon after, Jestry shambled out of the room, walking stiffly, rolling his hips to throw one leg out in front of him. His breathing came in gasps, and his eyes showed more red than white, for in his agony and screaming he’d exploded many blood vessels.

“It’s done?” Valindra asked him.

He grunted a response that sounded affirmative.

“And you are?” the lich pressed.

“Jestry, Slave of Asmodeus, Champion of Sylora Salm,” the living mummy recited.

“And you’re tasked with?”

“Killing Lady Dahlia,” came the simple response, and the man-beast paused as if considering the words, then clarified with simply, “Killing.”

Behind Valindra, that same obstinate Ashmadai sighed in apparent disapproval.

“Show me,” Valindra bade Jestry. “You claim to be a champion. I would see proof.”

Jestry tilted his head, curious.

Valindra motioned to the Ashmadai.

“He questions the judgment of Lady Sylora,” Valindra explained. She smiled widely when she saw the Ashmadai’s eyes pop open as he realized the game she was playing. “He thinks you have done her a disservice by becoming such a warrior.”

Jestry grunted and faced the Ashmadai directly.

“I don’t question Jestry!” the man pleaded. “I questioned the source of his pain-wracked—”

“He thinks you too weak to suffer the torment of the transformation,” Valindra taunted.

The man started to argue that point as well, distancing himself from any criticism of Jestry, but he needn’t have bothered, for when Valindra, the confidante of Sylora, added, “Show him,” Jestry pounced.

The Ashmadai was ready for the charge, setting his spear-staff tight on his hip to intercept the leaping Jestry—and indeed, Jestry’s chest slammed into that sharp tip full force. Against cloth armor, leather armor, even sturdy chain mail, such a defensive maneuver would have ended the fight before it began, with the spear tip plunging into the attacker’s chest. Against Jestry, though, against the umber hulk hide that had been treated by artisans and wizards alike, the spear couldn’t penetrate. The force of Jestry’s charge fully overwhelmed the strong Ashmadai, barreling him backward and to the floor.