Neverwinter (Neverwinter #2)(99)

“It’s good that you didn’t, then,” said Arunika. She paused for a few heartbeats then smiled once more and turned to leave. As she lifted her hood back in place, she whispered, “Will you join me later that we might celebrate this hopeful news?”

Herzgo Alegni had every intention of doing just that, whether Arunika invited him or not.





Sylora sat in her chamber in the tree-tower, impatiently tap-tapping the crooked wand on the chair’s arm. She looked across at Arunika’s messenger, the imp hopping back flips in front of the hearth for no apparent reason.

The sorceress had already known that Dahlia and the drow ranger were on their way. She’d communed with devils of her own, and so had learned of Hadencourt’s fate. Sylora understood the power of the malebranche and its ever-present allies, and so she understood that Dahlia had found a capable companion indeed to have so defeated that troupe.

But now, with the news from Arunika, Sylora understood that the danger had grown substantially.

The sorceress stood up quickly, and the imp responded by halting its spinning for a bit and staring at her curiously. “Where is she?” Sylora asked, pacing over and throwing another log on the fire.

“In Neverwinter, silly wizardess,” the imp replied.

“Not Arunika!” Sylora snapped back, though she realized the imp already knew that and was just being clever.

“Dahlia on her way …” the imp started, but Sylora cut the tiny creature short with a glower.

“Not Dahlia,” Sylora said evenly. “I know where Dahlia is. You just told me where Dahlia is.”

“Then why ask, Lady of Silly?”

Before Sylora could respond—and she intended to respond with a killing bolt of Dread Ring energy—there came a shuffling noise from the stairwell, and both the sorceress and the imp turned to watch Valindra enter the room. Another form lurked behind her on the stairs, in the shadows.

“We should strike the city this night,” Valindra said, her voice surprisingly clear, her eyes remaining focused. “They’re battered from our first assault and even more so by the damage and carnage caused by the ambassador’s umber hulks. They’re vulnerable and we shouldn’t let them get their footing back on solid ground.”

As impressed as she was by Valindra’s clarity of thought and expression, Sylora shook her head throughout the speech. “Not yet.”

“Delay favors the Netherese.”

“It cannot be helped. We have more pressing business.” Sylora looked over at the imp.

“Dahlia again?” Valindra asked with clear exasperation.

Sylora had to pause and consider that for a bit before responding.

Valindra’s mental instability seemed fast fading. The ambassador had been working on Valindra quite extensively, helping her as the drow psionicist had aided her in the early days of her affliction. Only more effectively, Sylora knew. She was thinking in leaps now, instead of merely reacting to the situation in front of her, and more importantly, she sold her advice with more than mere words but with emotion and even cleverness, like the dramatic effect in her response to Dahlia.

“Don’t underestimate her.”

“As Hadencourt did?” Valindra asked. She’d been at Sylora’s side when they received the news of the malebranche’s defeat. “He’s a devil, Sylora, and so thought himself so elevated above the mere mortals he could act foolishly. So he did, and so he’s paid for his mistake.”

“As you do now,” Sylora warned.

“Not at all,” Valindra replied with confidence. “I’ve witnessed Dahlia’s martial prowess and know it to be considerable. I also know I can defeat her. Magic is stronger than the blade … or than that stick she spins with such abandon. I would think Sylora Salm would know that.”

“She has an ally, a ranger of great reputation.”

“And you have me.”

“She has another ally,” Sylora went on, again turning to the imp. “The Netherese champion has joined with her. Those three, at least, are coming for us, and we must expect that Barrabus the Gray will bring along Shadovar reinforcements.”

“I do not fear them,” Valindra announced.

“But nor will I ignore them,” said Sylora. “They are coming. They are likely nearing our position even now. And so we’ll prepare for them. Keep the Ashmadai close—double the guards at the walls and let the zombies roam the forest near to Ashenglade. You watch them, Valindra. You see through their eyes. We’ll know when these would-be assassins come into our fortress, and we will destroy them. How much weaker will the Netherese be when their champion’s head is returned to them?”

“Or when their champion is raised by the power of the Dread Ring and turns to fight against them?” Valindra replied, and that brought a grin to Sylora’s face.

Valindra turned back to the stairwell and lifted her hand and beckoned, silently calling. “As you requested,” she said when the crinkled ashen zombie crept in through the door.

Sylora had indeed asked Valindra to bring along one of their undead pets, and she suppressed her revulsion at having the diminutive thing in her private room. With every step, the wretched little creature left ashen footprints, and the smell of burned flesh was a perpetual condition for these monsters. A decade had passed since the cataclysm, and still the zombie legions reeked with the foul aroma.