Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(78)

“When we are done, will you restore me?” Jestry asked, struggling with each word as if the wrappings on his face had not loosened enough for him to properly formulate the words.

“I’m told that it won’t be necessary,” Sylora reached out and gently stroked Jestry’s face. “You will grow fully into your new skin. All of the sensations will return.”

Jestry’s hand snapped up to catch Sylora by the wrist, and he held her hand against his face for a long while.

“I have another gift for you.” Sylora held up the enchanted staff-spear.

Jestry’s eyes gleamed with hunger. He let go of Sylora’s arm and stepped back, taking the weapon in both hands.

“Go and practice with it,” Sylora bade him. “Learn of its new powers.”

Jestry looked at her curiously.

“Go,” she repeated. “Valindra and I have much to discuss.”

Jestry nodded obediently, turned, and ran off.

“You know his wrappings will not become like his old skin, of course,” Valindra said when he was gone. “The process is lethal. Jestry has barely months to live, if he’s fortunate. A year or so if he’s unfortunate.”

“He will serve me well long after that,” Sylora assured her.

Valindra looked at her, then at the Dread Ring. “The scepter,” she reasoned. “You’re attuning him to be fully raised into undeath.”

Sylora looked to the forest into which Jestry had disappeared. “I already have,” she replied.





Barrabus the Gray didn’t scream out, and that was a victory. The wracking pains had him doubled over. Only his white-knuckled grip on the bridge’s railing kept him from falling onto the cobblestones and writhing uncontrollably.

“The Walk of Barrabus,” Herzgo Alegni said for the twentieth time, and he twanged his fork against the blade of Claw, heightening the sword’s punishing waves of retributive energy. The large tiefling walked over and tugged Barrabus’s hand from the railing, then threw the man to the ground.

“Crawl!” he demanded. “Crawl the length of the bridge, and perhaps I’ll rename it again—no, another one, perhaps. Yes, we’ll call it the Grovel of Barrabus. How much more fitting that will be!”

Barrabus could only look hatefully at his master, and couldn’t respond because he simply couldn’t pry his own teeth apart.

“How dare you?” Alegni asked, and he kicked Barrabus in the ribs.

The man hardly reacted to that impact, though, for the pain of the blow was nothing compared to the vibrations of that awful sword.

Alegni stepped back, sighed, and grabbed the tines of the fork, silencing it and halting the waves. The pain immediately ceased. Sweating, Barrabus crumbled lower to the bridge, gasping for breath, his face pressed against the stones.

“What am I to do with you?” Alegni said, his voice full of regret and sadness—and how Barrabus wanted to cut out his heart for that phony empathy! “I bring you glory and power, and you repay me with this treachery.”

Barrabus growled and forced himself over onto his back.

“Ah, yes, I know,” Alegni went on. “Don’t bother repeating your excuse that the citizens insisted. You knew, and you allowed it. You knew my designs on this magnificent bridge. You were the agent who first facilitated the name change I desired. No, deny not the truth. You wanted to wound me. You knew your barb wouldn’t stand, but you decided to play the game anyway.”

All signs of empathy gone, the angry tiefling kicked Barrabus hard in the ribs once more. The man grunted in reply, rolled up to his side, and curled defensively.

“Was it worth it?” Alegni asked him.

Yes, Barrabus thought.

“Was it?” Alegni asked again, and when no reply came, the tiefling turned and started away. “Come along,” he ordered coldly.

Barrabus rolled onto his back and took a few deep breaths. Then, before he could think it through—to do that would have been to warn the awful red-bladed sword—he threw himself over backward, tucking and rolling, coming to his feet and launching himself after Alegni.

He flipped his belt buckle free, the magical implement instantly transforming into a dagger, and moved to throw. He thought himself successful, thought his rash actions had eluded Claw just long enough to allow him one strike at that wretched Alegni.

But the wall of agony came on like a charging bull, stopping him in his tracks, freezing his muscles in place—and he realized he hadn’t come close to letting fly the knife.

Claw caught him, inside and out, and mocked him with its power. All strength flew from his every muscle and he simply crumpled where he stood. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t roll over, he couldn’t breathe. Nothing worked—he couldn’t even blink. It was as if all that was Barrabus mentally had been decoupled from all that was Barrabus physically.

This is death! he hoped. Oh, how he hoped.

But it wasn’t, and Barrabus gradually felt himself becoming whole again. He rolled onto his back and looked up to see Herzgo Alegni staring down at him. Before he knew what he was doing, Barrabus’s knife hand went up to hover above his own face. He felt the compulsion, and couldn’t deny it.

He brought the blade down to stab at his cheek, and when the blade slipped into his skin, he dragged it down to his chin.