There was no real communication between them, no hierarchy, king, or government. The ghosts of Gauntlgrym had been trapped by the cataclysm that destroyed their ancient homeland in millennia past, events lost to the ages in Faer?n. But they did have purpose, to defend the halls against intruders. And they had regret. It had been a dwarf, a Delzoun dwarf and his companions, allowed passage by the defenders of the hall, who had released the primordial. Confused and saddened by the destruction the primordial had wrought, the ghosts had nevertheless continued their quiet vigil.
But the tremors had returned. The beast stirred once more.
There was no conversation, no directive, but even those pale spirits knew they couldn’t stop the coming storm, could not fulfill their purpose. It began with one defection, not so much a conscious thought as a desperate flight. Then out of Gauntlgrym went the spirits, drifting along the reaches of the Underdark, seeking aid.
Others followed, and many left, walking forlornly from their ancestral home, seeking Delzoun blood—living allies who could entrap the beast once more. Following the tendrils of the Hosttower, some were drawn toward Luskan. Others found darker roads, descending to the deeper Underdark, endless corridors few living dwarves would dare to walk.
They carried with them their sorrow for what once had been, their pain for what had recently been marred, and their fears for what would yet come when the primordial awakened in all its mad rage.
THE WAR OF DARK AND DARKER
BLACK SMOKE ROSE IN SERPENTINE SPIRALS ABOVE THE DEATH-SCORCHED ground. Like a river of death, a line of decay and necromantic magic reached out from the main hub of disaster across a field and into the pyroclast, seeking spirits that had been trapped within the shriveled corporeal husks and calling them forth to serve.
Sylora Salm watched this newest outreach with her typically sparkling eyes and satisfied grin. Though nearing forty, the years had not yet dulled the Thayan sorceress’s beauty—changed it, perhaps, making her a bit thicker about the waist, her skin a bit less smooth, and some small wrinkles had appeared around her eyes. But more than counterbalancing those unavoidable physical changes, there had come to the formidable woman even more inner substance and strength, more confidence and an increased air of power. It showed in her eyes, and in her grin.
Her Dread Ring was becoming a reality at long last, though the number of dead in the sparsely populated area of Neverwinter Wood, even before the cataclysm, had been deemed inadequate by several of Szass Tam’s ambassadors, most of whom were Sylora’s rivals. Szass Tam had trusted in Sylora’s judgment, though, and she continued to have faith that she would deliver on that trust, that her Dread Ring would come to fruition, giving the lich lord the hold he had so long desired on the Sword Coast.
The pyroclast began to stir, a shaking of the black volcanic stone. Some loose ash and dirt fell into growing cracks. A small gray hand appeared, withered and shriveled, its fingers twisted in a pose of perpetual agony. Slowly at first, but with increasing frenzy, the hand clawed and shoved at the rock. A pair of Ashmadai attendants started toward the spot to help the newest child of Szass Tam break free from its decades-old tomb, but Sylora held them back with an upraised hand.
She smiled widely, even giggled as the zombie pushed aside enough of the debris to poke forth its other arm, then prying the two limbs apart, shoved its head from its pyroclastic womb. Its scrabbling movements grew increasingly frenetic, the creature demanding to come free, desperate to hunt the living—but only those living, of course, who were not attuned to His Omnipotence Szass Tam.
Standing beside Sylora, Dahlia was far less imposing than she had been a decade before, though she looked exactly the same, her elf heritage protecting her from the ravages of a mere decade. She wore her traveling garb: the high black boots, the red-banded black hat, the white blouse under the black leather vest, the black skirt that climbed diagonally nearly to her hip, and the nine diamond studs in her left ear and one in her right. She had been ordered not to remove them, or to change the pattern—a reminder to Korvin Dor’crae that Sylora’s intervention had been to his benefit. And of course she still commanded Kozah’s Needle. But as there seemed something more formidable about Sylora, more solid and confident, so Dahlia appeared diminished.
She didn’t smile as she watched the birth of their newest minion—she hardly ever smiled anymore.
“Take heart, young one,” Sylora said to her, more of a tease than a gesture of goodwill. “See what we have done.”
The obedient Dahlia nodded, and wondered, not for the first time, how it had happened, how she’d fallen so far. Obviously her descent in the ranks of Szass Tam’s hierarchy had been facilitated by those long-ago pangs of conscience, her failure to finish the deed and begin that which she had promised. It hadn’t helped her, of course, that Sylora Salm had been the one to rescue her mission. That Dahlia had even been allowed to live after being captured in Luskan had surprised her, and still she wasn’t sure if the mercy had been because of her work in locating the primordial, or simply so that Sylora could subjugate her, and keep her in thrall.
Many were the days when Dahlia wished they’d killed her.
Beyond her predictable descent in the hierarchy, though, it was the other fall that had troubled Dahlia even more, the loss of swagger, of lust, of the devil-may-care attitude that had guided her life for so very long.
“I have spoken with Szass Tam about you,” Sylora remarked as she sent the zombie on its way, out into the forest to hunt Shadovar. She turned a wry grin on Dahlia. “He is pleased by your willingness to submit to my will.”
Dahlia tried hard to keep the hatefulness out of her blue eyes, but not hard enough, she knew from Sylora’s widening smile. Of course Sylora would bring it to that. She had taken such pleasure in putting Dahlia in her place, day by day and year by year. She had never once exacted any physical punishment on Dahlia, as Sylora often did with the Ashmadai. No, her abuse of Dahlia had been strictly emotional, one game of mental cat-and-mouse after another, and with every remark holding a double meaning.
“Our beast is awakening once more,” Sylora went on. “It will rain greater death and destruction this time, feeding the Dread Ring, securing our hold here. Even without that, the agents of Shade Enclave are retreating.”
“They’re still about,” Dahlia dared say.
“But not in Neverwinter Town in any numbers,” said Sylora. “Their grip on that city was undisputed before I awakened the beast, was it not?” Her tone with that last question made it quite clear to Dahlia that she was actually seeking an answer.
“Yes, milady,” the elf warrior dutifully responded.
“Now they remain only because they seek some ancient elven relics in Neverwinter Wood, but what they find, day after day, are my minions, risen from the ash and eager to kill.” She paused and looked across the small field to a group of Ashmadai standing beside a trio of different zombies, not ash-colored, but darker hued. Two of the three carried garish wounds, as if their corpses had been fed upon, and indeed they had. “That is the genius of His Omnipotence, is it not? Other armies diminish with death, but his grows with every fallen enemy.”
Dahlia’s eyes fixed on the third of those corpses, one who had died from a single crushing blow to the side of his head. She had done that, defeating the man in single combat, and it had been a good kill against a worthy opponent. In times past, she would have savored that victory, but looking upon the corpse brought a bitter taste to her mouth.
“Go to Neverwinter Town in the morning,” Sylora instructed her. “I wish to know how many reside there now, and how many of the Netherese stalk her streets.”
Fists clenched at his sides, Herzgo Alegni looked down upon the town of Neverwinter, focusing his gaze and his anger on that beautiful winged structure that centered the rebuilding.
The Herzgo Alegni Bridge, it had been called, for just a few days. For several years after that, like everything else in Neverwinter, it had been called nothing more than part of the disaster, for there had been no one around to take note of it.
But its name was the Winged Wyvern Bridge once more. None of the new settlers had heard of that decade-old proclamation of Lord Hugo Babris.
Hugo Babris—dead like everyone else who had been in or around the city of Neverwinter on that terrible day, save those Shadovar nobles, like Alegni, who had shadowalked back to Shade Enclave.
And one other, the man who stood beside Alegni even then, and who had informed him—with a bit too much glee in his voice, Alegni thought—of the reversion of the bridge’s name.
“You are certain of this?” Alegni asked.
“It was one of the tasks you put upon me to prepare for your arrival,” answered Barrabus the Gray. “When have I ever failed you?”
That sarcastic response had the tiefling turning hateful eyes at his subordinate.
“We will not be welcomed in there,” Barrabus went on.
“Then perhaps we should not ask their permission before entering,” Alegni said with a sneer, and turned back to the distant town and the bridge he had so coveted.
Barrabus didn’t even wait until the tiefling had turned before offering a shrug in response, but he did add to it, “These are not enemies to be dismissed too easily, these men and women we will face in Neverwinter, nor are they any friends of the necromancers who pull forth undead from the ruins. These are seasoned fighters and spellcasters who have stubbornly held that patch of ground against a legion of zombies crawling up right into their midst.”
“My Shadovar kill those creatures with impunity. And most of the monsters had been raised from Neverwinter, and had long departed, before the first of these new settlers ever arrived, according to your first report.”
“True enough, but I caution you to take them seriously, lest we find ourselves fighting to the death for this camp they insist on calling Neverwinter, and even then with so many enemies waiting for us in the forest.”
Herzgo Alegni continued to stare at the patch of black rock that had once been a thriving city, and rubbed his weary face. The tiefling—always an outsider, even among the Netherese—had faced severe discipline after the cataclysm, with some Shadovar blaming him personally for not foreseeing the Thayan threat and dealing with the minions of Szass Tam before they could inflict such damage. Few Netherese had been killed in the cataclysm, since most were rarely in the actual city of Neverwinter, but out in the forest pursuing the ancient treasure they so craved.
For the last decade, the expedition had continued, but Herzgo Alegni had not been sent back to lead it. But with the ground trembling yet again and the minions of Szass Tam gaining a clear upper hand—and an unstoppable position should they ever complete their Dread Ring—Alegni had asked for and had been granted a chance for redemption. He had returned just a month earlier, replacing the current commander, with orders to continue the hunt for fallen Xinlenal Enclave and to beat back the Thayan intrusion at all costs.
Xinlenal—a Netherese enclave, a city built on a floating mountain—was the first of the legendary Netherese enclaves. It had tried to flee the Fall, but made it only to the edge of the Empire of Netheril’s elven frontier. There it came crashing down, as had all the other enclaves save prescient Shade when Karsus stole the power of a goddess and magic itself failed. Thus far, only Sakkors had been rediscovered, once more floated, and eventually settled. The other great enclaves eventually wore away under the blasting sands of the phaerimm’s unnatural desert, but Xinlenal had fallen somewhere in what would eventually come to be known as Neverwinter Wood—or so the Twelve Princes believed. And as the Twelve Princes believed, the Empire of Netheril believed.
Of course, Alegni’s first act upon regaining command of the recovery of Xinlenal was to summon his principal scout and assassin back to his side, something that had not pleased Barrabus the Gray at all. The assassin had been living in relative luxury in Calimport, putting his skills to work for Netherese agents who sought to rule the street trade there. And best of all, he had seen little of Herzgo Alegni in that time.
It was clear to the tiefling that the one thing most intolerable to Barrabus the Gray was servitude. He could exist in a hierarchy, and had never seemed desirous of the responsibilities of command, but Alegni knew the assassin had acted as an independent assassin, serving the needs of the pashas of Calimport or other interests in return for agreed-upon rewards. That had all changed with Alegni, though, and the dominance the tiefling and the other Netherese nobles had exacted over Barrabus was wrought of magic compulsion and nothing more.
In the mind of Barrabus the Gray, he was a slave. He was rarely beaten or tormented with their debilitating magic, the demands on him had never been excessive, and he was able to live a very good life by anyone’s standards in Memnon or Calimport, or wherever he chose. But the coercion remained, and Alegni knew it gnawed at him.
Herzgo Alegni turned to face Barrabus and said, “You suggest we leave the city alone for now?”
“They are enemies of our enemies,” Barrabus replied. “But they are friends of Waterdeep, and so no friends of ours.”
Alegni continued to nod. “Then let them and the Thayans kill each other. Spend little time in the city—just enough to inform me of any significant changes.”
“And the bridge?”
“They can call it whatever they choose,” Alegni decided, though he couldn’t help but wince and betray his true feelings as he spoke the words. Alegni had to be careful, and had to find a way to regain his standing in the empire, and with fewer resources and much more to lose.
“Little time in the city,” Barrabus repeated back to the tiefling. “Little enough to return to the south in the interim?”
“There is a war raging here and you think to leave?” Alegni answered angrily, just the response he knew Barrabus the Gray had feared. “To Neverwinter Wood with you. I will not assign you to any company at present, but I expect you to be productive in battling my enemies.” He handed Barrabus a pouch, and from the sound of it as it was shuffled, it seemed to be full of small metallic vials. “Shy from the undead wretches and aim your blades at these fools who call themselves Ashmadai. And when they are dead, sprinkle this consecrated water upon them to deny the Dread Ring its food, and new minions.”
“You call the Ashmadai fools because they pay allegiance to a devil?” Barrabus said with a grin obviously designed to let Alegni know that he was indeed snidely referring to one line of the tiefling’s heritage.
“Be gone, Barrabus,” Alegni said. “Every tenday, I will know the news from Neverwinter Town from your lips, and as you come in to report, so too shall you offer me your tribute in the form of Ashmadai brands. Do not disappoint me, or you will find yourself serving among the shock troops in the ranks of one of my lesser commanders.”
“Over there! Heretic!”
“Kill him!”
The three Ashmadai charged ahead, brandishing their spear-staffs.
“He went into the woods!” one yelled.
Indeed he had, into the woods and up a tree with such grace and speed that the vertical turn had hardly slowed him. Sitting on a branch, Barrabus the Gray watched their approach with amusement. He could certainly understand why Alegni hated these cultists so, even were they not the mortal enemies of the Netherese. They seemed like animals—nay, worse than animals, for they threw aside their reason and logic in a purely savage lust to please Asmodeus.
The idiots worshiped a devil-god.
Barrabus shook his head at the stupidity of it all, his gaze lowering to follow the three frantic forms as they entered the copse, crashing through the brush with abandon. He hopped to his feet on the branch, slipped off his cloak, and circled around the trunk, disappearing into the tangle of leaves and branches.
“He’s in the tree!” one of the Ashmadai yelled a few moments later. The woman stood pointing, and even began hopping in her glee that they had apparently cornered their intended prey.
“No, he’s not,” Barrabus answered from behind the trio.
The woman stopped hopping. All three spun.
“But his cloak might be,” Barrabus answered.
He stood with his left hand resting on the hilt of a sword strapped to his hip, his right hand hooked by his thumb into his belt, halfway between the magical buckle and another blade, an elaborate and magical main-gauche he had been given as a gift by a powerful street family upon his return to Calimport nearly a decade before.
“You wished to speak with me, I presume,” he said, teasing them, and after only a brief, astonished pause, the three cultists howled and charged.
Barrabus crossed his arms in front of him, his right hand pausing for only an instant to activate the magical buckle, and even as he continued the movement across to reach his sword, he flicked that blade forward.
The female Ashmadai, in the middle, gave a halting gurgle and broke off the charge, staggering backward with the knife deep in her throat.
The other two charged on, the one to Barrabus’s left thrusting his weapon like a spear, the other swinging his red-hued scepter as a club, both either not caring or not even realizing that their ranks had been thinned.
Barrabus’s main-gauche came free of its sheath and crossed back under his right arm, slower to draw the longer blade, to the left in time to slap against the Ashmadai’s thrusting spear, hooking the weapon between its central blade and the cunningly upturned hilt. Even as he drew forth his long sword, Barrabus ducked under the first swing of the club and rotated his left wrist, turning his main-gauche under and around the presented spear. The sword came back to the right to block the second club swing, up high then the third down lower, and all the while, he kept that left hand rotating, forcing the Ashmadai to keep adjusting his grip to prevent having the spear taken from his grasp.
Finally the Ashmadai disengaged the spear, but only by throwing it out wide to the side, and in that split second of opening, his sword still expertly picking off every furious swing by the other opponent, Barrabus rushed ahead and poked the spearman hard in the shoulder as he tried to duck away. The cultist yelped, but quickly regained his balance and re-oriented his weapon, though having staggered a few steps back.
Barrabus seemed not to notice him, his two weapons working in concert against a single enemy. He fought purely defensively, letting the Ashmadai’s rage play out, letting him make the one mistake that would allow Barrabus to hook his scepter with the main-gauche and clear the way for a killing sword strike.
The spearman recognized the tactic, and yelled out a warning as he launched his spear at Barrabus. From only a few feet away it seemed a sure strike, and would have been against almost any warrior in Faer?n.
But Barrabus the Gray wasn’t just any warrior.
It appeared as if he never even looked at the spearman, but his left hand retreated perfectly and he snapped his hand at just the right moment for his main-gauche to catch and redirect the missile, turning it out in front of him. And at the same time, the suddenly twisting Barrabus brought his sword over and down, behind the missile, and drove it out in front of him, throwing the spear forward.
It was an awkward launch, of course, and had little chance of hurting the Ashmadai with the scepter, but it caught him by surprise, and a moment of weakness against Barrabus the Gray was a moment too long. The man threw his arms up, his club up, batting the missile away, then howled and reversed, trying to slam down against the incoming enemy.
But the assassin’s main-gauche caught the descending club and turned it down and across to Barrabus’s right as he dropped his right foot back and pulled his right arm and the sword back to clear the way. Before the Ashmadai had even managed to stop the descent, Barrabus’s sword darted forth over his trapped weapon. The zealot tried to block with his hand, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, and he could only grimace as the thrusting sword drove into his chest.
He threw himself backward, staggering as blood began to stain his leather tunic. At first, he seemed relieved, as if thinking he had avoided a serious hit.
But Barrabus knew from the pumping blood that his fine sword had nicked the man’s heart, and he paid that one no more heed, turning instead to the unarmed Ashmadai, who stopped his charge abruptly when faced with those deadly blades.
“They’re both dead,” Barrabus assured him, “though neither likely knows it yet.”
The Ashmadai looked to his female companion, who still stood, gasping for breath and trying to grasp the knife hilt, trying to find the courage to pull the blade free.
“She’ll feel the poison soon,” Barrabus explained. “Better for her to just drive the blade in deeper and finish it quickly.”
Over to the side, the bleeding man called out, “Kill him!” but though the cry started strong, his words got crushed in a grimace of pain. As the remaining fighter looked at him, the warrior sank down to his knees, his right hand squeezing at the mortal wound in his chest, his left hand still stubbornly holding his scepter.
“Is he speaking to me or to you?” Barrabus teased.
He chuckled at the absurdity of it all as the remaining Ashmadai, perhaps not as devoted to his devil-god as he thought, turned and fled.
“I’m right behind you!” Barrabus yelled, though he made no move to follow. He turned to the kneeling man, who had bent over and had his hand on the ground as well, needing its support to keep from tumbling down.
A tinge of regret coursed through Barrabus as he walked past the dying man to the woman, who fell back from him, stumbling against a tree, the knife still in her throat.
“If I took you back as a captive, the Netherese would torture you in unspeakable ways before they killed you,” he said as he pulled the knife out and drove his sword through her heart in the same movement.
She grimaced and tensed, fighting the inevitable for just a moment before falling limp, and Barrabus retracted his sword and let her slide to the ground. He stepped back to the kneeling man and ended his struggle with a single blow to the head.
With a profound sigh, Barrabus sheathed his main-gauche and pulled forth a pair of the vials from the pouch Alegni had given him. They were made of some translucent metal he didn’t recognize, allowing him to view the black, smoky liquid contained within. With his foot, he rolled the male Ashmadai over, popped the stopper on one vial and poured its magical contents onto the dead man’s forehead.
He stepped back and turned away as the despoiling magic did its work, the dark gray pall spreading from the man’s forehead to all of his face, and continuing to spread, like a mold, it seemed, to cover all of his body.
Angry, Barrabus spun back, hooked his sword under the collar of the man’s tunic, and tore the garment off the corpse. He didn’t savor the work of slicing off the patch of skin that held the Ashmadai brand, but he did it anyway, then he did the same to the woman, despoiling her with the second vial and taking her brand.
He headed back toward the nearest Netherese encampment, to be rid of the trophies. And with every step, Barrabus considered the insanity of this macabre form of soldier swapping. Had he not despoiled the bodies, the Thayans would have fed them to the growing Dread Ring, to add to its strength and to animate the dead into zombie warriors they could send once more after the Netherese. The living Ashmadai apparently considered that to be the greatest gift they could offer.
But since Barrabus had infused the corpses with the stuff of shadow, their fate would be the same, save for their masters. The Netherese would collect the bodies and send them to some arcane laboratory somewhere in conquered Sembia, where they would be fully infused with the very stuff of the Shadowfell and rise as shadow zombies, creatures of the night that would be turned against their former allies.
“Ridiculous,” Barrabus the Gray whispered to the uncaring wood.